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“Fourteen ye’r ole, an’ I dunno nothin ’ ! ” 


X 










SAM 


BY 





With Illustrations by 

E. M. NAGEL 



PHILADELPHIA 

Henry Altemus Company 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

OCT 16 1906 

Cwyrtflrt Entry 

13, >9oC, 

CLASS «- XXc,i No. 

/Sy%93 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1906, by Henry Altemus 


CONTENTS 


A Great Purpose 

CHAPTER I 

Page 


CHAPTER II 


The Great Undertaking 37 


Working His Way 

CHAPTER III 

A Cruel Revelation 

CHAPTER IV 


CHAPTER V 


New Friends and New Hope 103 


The Journey’s End 

CHAPTER VI 


[vii] 






























* 











ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 

“ * Fourteen ye’r ole, an’ I dunno nothin’ ! . . Frontispiece 

“ Sam paused to cool his feet ” 19 

“It ’s lucky you happened along ” 23 

“ The dogs had started a squirrel ” 29 

“ Charlie was returning from the mill ” 33 

“ ‘ You ’ll pull with me, won’t you bud ? ’ ” 41 

“ The expedition was ready to move ” 45 

“ He fed his little brother and put him to bed ” 53 

“ Then the country opened ” 65 

“ They saw an elderly woman knitting” 77 

“ A wetting would be bad for Bunny ” 89 

‘“Who be they ? ’ she demanded ” 93 

“ ‘ Every last chicken will be drowned ’” 95 

“ He put Bunny on a chair ” 109 

“ ‘Wake up, I say’” 115 

“ He kissed his hand to Maud again and again ” . . . . 123 
“ Bunny leaned against her knee ” 137 

[ix] 









































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* 






































> 














A GREAT PURPOSE 





Sam 


F 


CHAPTER I 

GREAT PURPOSE 

IOURTEEN ye’r ole, an’ I dunno 
nothin’ !” 

The words were uttered sotto voce, 
and the tone had a disgusted inflec- 
tion. The boy — Sam Colston — rooted his 
hands deep into the pockets of his butternut 
trousers. 

He was sitting, boy fashion, on the top rail 
of an old worm-fence, with his heels drawn up 
in a crack to form a rest. On them was out- 
spread an open circular, clearly printed on pink 
paper and illustrated with woodcuts. It had 
a grease-spot in one corner, as though it had 
recently formed part of the contents of a 
[ 13 ] 


SAM 


lunch-basket, and the centre of the paper 
showed a multitude of fine wrinkles, due prob- 
ably to its having been roughly crumpled ere 
it had been cast aside. The previous day Sam 
had found it in a fence-corner, blown thither 
from some unknown quarter. 

The pictures had interested the boy, touch- 
ing him in a spot vitally responsive; but the 
text baffled him, withholding its secret. He 
could not read. 

“I wish dad had been some account,” the boy 
muttered. “ ’Tain’t no use wishin’ he ’d change 
now, bein’ he ’s ole, an’ riveted to his ways with 
rheum’tism. But I ’d ha’ been pow’ful proud 
if he ’d started some account an’ kep’ on. We- 
all mout’r had some chance to learn sense if 
we-all had n’t had to scuffle for our livin’ an’ 
his’n sence mammy died.” 

Sam’s glance left the circular and wandered 
abroad over the cornfield, where the green 
stalks stood in knee-high rows, over the bit of 
creek-bottom given up exclusively to sweet 
[ 14 ] 


SAM 


potato and melon patches, and beyond to 
the broom-sedge barren where the dun cow 
and little hornless heifer nosed about and 
browsed. 

He was not thinking of what he saw, al- 
though in another mood the vigor of the 
young corn and its freedom from weeds, the 
fine condition of the cattle, and the fact that 
the vines were beginning to run, would have 
filled him with pride. He was a good farmer 
in a primitive way, and possessed a store of 
practical information. Just now all beauty 
and promise had vanished from the heavens 
above and the earth beneath, because a bit of 
printed paper, carelessly flung aside by a way- 
farer, and as carelessly picked up, lay there on 
his knee, mutely defying him to penetrate its 
meaning. 

After a little he carefully folded the paper 
and stowed it away in an old pocketbook. 
Then he jumped from the fence on the corn- 
field side and went back to his work, seizing 
[ 15 ] 


SAM 


his hoe and chopping vigorously at weeds and 
wild pea-vines. 

A dog, resting in the shade of a fence- 
corner, lifted his muzzle from his folded paws 
and drew back his lips from his teeth in a 
derisive grin, as though in his opinion energy 
in hot weather was sheer foolishness. Then 
he resettled himself to slumber until the din- 
ner-horn should blow. 

The lad’s mind worked in unison with his 
muscles. By applying himself steadily he 
could finish the five or six corn-rows that were 
still unweeded by dinner-time. He might 
have finished before, but for puzzling so long 
there on the fence. 

The brother next him in age, who usually 
shared his labor, had gone over to the mill 
with grist, and that was an all-day job, driv- 
ing steers. After dinner he, Sam, would run 
down to the store and get this haunting bit of 
paper disposed of. The storekeeper could 
read printing, and so could his wife. The 
[ 16 ] 


SAM 


store was only five miles away, and the after- 
noons were long. 

Charley would be home early enough to 
feed the stock and help their sister Millie with 
the night-work. He could not wait about the 
paper. 

The sun waxed to the meridian; the shad- 
ows lay evenly, each tree and bush stand- 
ing in its own, like a cup in its saucer. The 
dog lifted his head from time to time and 
yawned. Through the still blue of the upper 
atmosphere buzzards sailed lazily, on almost 
motionless wings, with heads down-bent, scan- 
ning the drowsy earth. 

In a sycamore amid the broom-sedge a 
mocking-bird trilled out joyously, importing 
into his song clever imitations of his neigh- 
bors. The cow and the heifer had withdrawn 
to a thicket of pine-scrub for a season of cud- 
chewing repose. 

Only the boy worked on, his hoe moving 
steadily, every stroke falling where it would 
[ 17 ] 


5 A M 


do the most good. Perspiration beaded his 
sunburned face and hands, and flattened the 
cotton shirt to his bending shoulders. His 
bare feet were clay-stained nearly to the color 
of the soil. There were still many corn-hills 
to be worked, and Sam never let go a thing he 
had put his hand to until it was finished. 

From a distance, around the shoulder of a 
hill, came the resonant clangor of a horn, loud 
and mellow in tone, but giving out the notes 
of its call with hesitation, as if blown by one 
unaccustomed to its use. The mocking-bird, 
silenced, inclined his head and listened. 

Then, deciding that the new notes were an 
audacious challenge, the bird squared him- 
self, puffed out his breast, swelled his throat, 
and duplicated them, with their irregularity 
and imperfection cleverly accentuated. The 
derision was drolly manifest, and Sam laughed 
as he stooped for a pebble, which he tossed 
in the direction of the sycamore. 

“Quit makin’ fun o’ our baby,” he shouted. 

[ 18 ] 


SAM 


“You could n’t make no better music yo’se’f till 
you larnt.” 

Then he shouldered his hoe and climbed the 
fence at a point where a well-worn path came 
down to it. The dog 
was already disap- 
pearing round a bend 
ahead, evidently con- 
sidering the summons 
specially intended for 
him. 

At a small stream 
which the path 
crossed, Sam paused 
to cool his feet by 
paddling them in the 
water. He stooped 
and bathed his face and hands also. 

He had an old face, heavy-jawed and seri- 
ous, like the face of a man. His features were 
strongly marked, and his skin tanned and 
freckled. His eyes were dark and had, habit- 

2— Sam [ 19 ] 



SAM 


ually, the quietude of expression peculiar to 
the eyes of those who dwell in communities 
where changes are slow. 

His frame was spare and large, even for a 
lad of his age. He looked that which he was, 
a capable, reliable fellow, tenacious of grip and 
of purpose. 

“Sam favored his mammy,” the neighbors 
declared ; “an’ she were a likely ’ooman, smart 
as God makes ’em, an’ hard-workin’. 

“Did n’t look like Sam had ary drap o’ that 
’ar sawny, do-nothin’ Colston blood in him, 
Sam nor Charley nuther. Boys gin’ally took 
arter the spinnin’-wheel side, an’ ’t war a 
mercy, too, oftentimes. Eve’ybody knowed 
Jim Colston war n’t wuth the powder an’ shot 
’t would take to shoot him.” 

As Sam turned into the road from the side- 
path, his attention was caught by a horseman 
coming slowly into sight. The man had a bag 
of corn across his saddle, and slouched a trifle 
forward. Sam recognized him at once and, 
[ 20 ] 


SiiW 


dominated by a sudden impulse, paused and 
waited for the rider to come up. 

It was the Methodist minister, or the “cir- 
cuit-rider.” Every man, woman, and child on 
his circuit was personally known to old 
“Brother Gardner,” and as he pulled up his 
horse beside the boy he smiled down on him 
cheerily. 

“Well, Sammy, my son, how are you?” he 
asked cordially. “An’ how are the folks at 
you-all’s? I’m on my way to mill, you see, 
for the good Lord ain’t found me helpless 
enough to need ravens to tote in my bread 
yet.” 

“They ’ll be along whenst you need ’em,” 
said the boy ; then, mindful of his manners, he 
replied to the social inquiries, and made re- 
sponsive ones in his turn. He was very good 
friends with the preacher, who had married 
his parents, and had also, a few short years 
before, said kindly, heartfelt words of love 
and promise over his mother’s grave. 

[ 21 ] 


6 


SAM 


Sam pulled out his paper and tendered it 
eagerly. 

“It ’s lucky you happened along, Mr. Gard- 
ner/’ he said, “or ruther that I met you. I ’ve 
got a paper here I ’ll be obleeged to you fur 
readin’ to me. I found it flung away by some- 
body passin’, an’ drifted in a fence-corner. The 
picters put me in mind o’ our Bunny. Look 
here at ’em.” 

The preacher flattened out the circular on 
his meal-bag, and searched in his pocket for 
his spectacles. Then he read the document 
aloud with great deliberation. 

The circular was the annual report of a 
school for spinal cripples, located in a city 
near the seaboard. It was comprehensive 
and clear in its statements, and gave good 
references. 

One side of the sheet was devoted to an 
illustrated notice of a dispensary connected 
with the school, where spinal cripples were 
furnished with plaster of Paris jackets made 

[ 22 ] 


SAM 


after an improved method, and given the bene- 
fit of thorough and constant treatment. A 
certified list of deformities which had been 
permanently cured was given, and the little 
woodcuts showed the gradual straightening 
of deformed limbs and 
backs. 

It was explicitly 
stated that the 
younger the cripple 
submitted for treat- 
ment, the greater the 
chance of success. 

Sam listened ear- 
nestly, and once or 
twice asked to have 
a sentence reread, as though to fix its mean- 
ing firmly in his mind. When the circular was 
finally returned to him he expressed his thanks 
gratefully enough, but forbore from comment. 
Sam was a boy of few words. 

Mr. Gardner slowly turned the mane on his 
[ 23 ] 



S A M 


horse’s neck from side to side with his switch. 
He was thinking what a pity it was that little 
James Colston could not be benefited by some 
such place and treatment; but institutions 
were costly places, and these people were poor, 
ignorant, and far removed from the great 
world where science coped with disease and 
oftentimes conquered it. 

The preacher was a man of limited experi- 
ence himself, but he knew enough of the 
world to feel sure that much money would be 
requisite for such an adventure as taking a 
spinal cripple several hundred miles and giv- 
ing him the benefit of skillful surgical treat- 
ment. He was sorry for Sam, who, he knew, 
took his brother’s deformity sadly to heart. 

It seemed almost a pity that Sam should 
have found the paper, and so become aware of 
a possible remedy entirely beyond his reach. 
The good man sighed as he gathered up his 
reins. He was so poor himself, so powerless 
to help his flock in many ways. 

[ 24 ] 


SAM 


Sam stopped him. 

“How far is this place, whar the school an* 
’spensary is at?” the boy questioned. 

Mr. Gardner made a rough calculation. 

“Three or four hun’ed miles, I reckon, 
surely.” 

“How do you git thar?” 

“By railroad. You take the cars over at 
Marketville, an’ travel straight down coun- 
try.” Then, fancying he could read the boy’s 
mind, the preacher added, not unkindly, 
“You ’re thinkin’ o’ Bunny, I know, Sam; but 
this sort o’ doings costs a sight o’ money, an’ 
you ain’t nothin’ but a boy yet.” 

“Would it straighten out the baby’s back 
like our’n?” Sam queried earnestly. 

“I don’t know. It might, an’ then agin it 
might n’t. ’T would depend on the way his 
back ’s hurt, I reckon,” was the cautious 
reply. 

“Thar ’d be a chance, though?” 

“Yes,” said the minister, a trifle reluctantly, 

[ 25 ] 


SAM 


“there 'd be a chance. But you can't do nothin', 
Sam, an' so I would n’t pester about it if I was 
you. The money 's lackin', an’ that scotches 
you. Folks are obleeged to have money for 
such as that. It 's mighty pitiful, but I allow 's 
the Lord knows best. Your hands is tied, 
anyway. An’," with a smile, “you ain’t the 
baby's daddy, anyway." 

With other words, kindly meant but dis- 
couraging, the preacher went on his way. 

Sam stood looking after the retreating fig- 
ures of horse and man for a moment, and then 
pursued his own way home. His brain teemed 
with thoughts and suggestions. Heretofore 
money had been a scant factor in Sam’s life, 
and he knew so little of the world that he 
had no adequate conception of its impor- 
tance. 

He was accustomed to depend entirely upon 
his own body and brain, his thews, sinews, and 
wits, backed by his sturdy will, for the accom- 
plishment of his purposes. His self-reliance 
[ 26 ] 


SAM 


Was so great that, to him, these possessions 
seemed equal to any occasion. 

On one thing he speedily resolved ; if it were 
within the power of man to straighten poor 
little Bunny’s crooked back it should be done, 
even if he, Sam, should have to carry the 
v child pickaback all the way to that far-off 
city. Sam shrank from deformity with a 
strong-limbed, healthy animal’s instinctive 
shrinking. His little brother’s crookedness 
had been a pain to him for years, and the more 
so because he held himself, in a way, account- 
able for it. 

The memory of the accident dwelt with him 
always. Bunny had been less than a year old, 
a straight and healthy baby, just growing 
into the accomplishment of creeping, in which 
every fibre of him delighted. One evening 
the mother had gone to milking, taking the 
two other children with her to help with the 
calves, and leaving Sam to mind the house 
and child. Sam had taken the little one from 
[ 27 ] 


SAM 


his cradle, hitched up his frock so as to give 
his legs fair play, and set him to creeping 
about the floor. 

After a little the dogs, down by the cow- 
pen, had started a squirrel, chased it back to- 
ward the house, and treed it in a big walnut 
just outside the yard-fence. Hearing their 
music, Sam had dashed out, leaving the door 
open. 

The dogs, wild with excitement, danced 
about and reared up on their hind legs against 
the tree-trunk, whimpering and barking. Up 
among the branches Sam had caught sight 
of the saucy little beast, curling his tail over 
his back and bidding his pursuers a proud defi- 
ance. 

It had all proved too much for Sam. For- 
getful of the baby, he had seized his father’s 
old musket on the hooks above the door, and 
rushed to the assistance of the dogs. 

The squirrel had proved wary, jumping 
from limb to limb, cleverly keeping on the 
[ 28 ] 


SAM 


opposite side of the tree from danger. There 
had been nobody to head the quarry, so Sam 
had circled round many times before he se- 
cured the shot which brought his game tum- 
bling from the tree to his feet, dead. 

Sam had picked it up 
with exultation, and 
run gloriously back 
to the house with his 
gun on his shoulder 
and the dogs capering 
round him. Reach- 
ing the porch, he had 
been horrified to dis- 
cover that the squirrel 
was not the only 
thing hurt on that 
hunt. 

The baby lay in a huddle just beyond the 
porch, which was high in front, for it was 
built on the incline of the hill. It had been a 
bad fall for the little adventurer seeking new 
[ 29 ] 



S A M 


countries on his hands and knees — a fall of 
fully three feet, with stony ground to receive 
him. 

The child had not been crying, nor was he 
unconscious when Sam, frightened and re- 
morseful, picked him up ; but he looked queer, 
and Sam had run off with him to his mother 
in a panic. 

No serious hurt had been discovered on the 
child’s body — only an abrasion or two, and a 
bruise near the spine which was not regarded 
as serious. No one had thought of a doctor. 
The little fellow appeared as usual the next 
day. Working people have scant time for 
worrying, and a tumble from a porch had 
seemed no great matter. 

But the result had been serious. After the 
fall the baby ceased to thrive as he had done. 
His little body became puny and frail and as 
he grew his spine developed a pitiable curve. 
The neighborhood doctor did not know how 
to treat the case, and so poor little James, or 
[ 30 ] 


SAM 


Bunny, as he was called, had become a hump- 
back. 

The horn sounded again, and Sam quickened 
his footsteps, jumping the rail-fence which 
bounded the yard. The house, a two-roomed 
log structure, stood in an open space, with a 
patch of garden-ground beyond, about the 
porch clumps of snow-balls, lilac and mock- 
orange bushes which the dead mother had 
planted. 

In a little armchair on the rough porch sat 
a child, with the tin dinner-horn in his hands 
and a complacent grin upon his counte- 
nance. 

“I blowed fur you!” he asserted with de- 
light. “An’ Millie said I done it ’most as 
good as her. Did I? Did you hear me real 
loud?” 

“Howlin’ loud!” Sam answered, his eyes 
and voice softening. “ ’T was like men-folks 
was a-blowin’. A mocker out in the broom- 
sedge ’lowed you was sassin’ him, an’ sassed 

[ 31 ] 


S A M 


back pretty peart. You oughter hearn him. 
He was com’cal.” 

The child laughed, showing teeth like grains 
of rice. He was a pretty boy, despite his de- 
formity, and had a merry, contented look, very 
different from the peevish, pained expression 
usual to affliction. He was still so young, and 
his home was so far away from many people, 
that he had not grown unpleasantly conscious 
of his deformity. All about him had been kind 
to the child, and even his selfish, indolent 
father would bestir himself when Bunny had 
one of his “bad turns.” Sam regarded him as 
the apple of his eye. 

With no need now to go to the store, Sam 
took his hoe into the garden after dinner, and 
began to chop among the vegetables. They 
did not really need attention, but Sam thought 
best when his hands were employed. He had 
plans of importance to decide upon. 

The problem of straightening a crooked 
back, to Sam’s ignorance, did not seem the 
[ 32 ] 


SAM 


wonderful triumph of science that it really is. 
Something like it had even come within his 
own experience. He remembered well how 
badly bent and bruised a little apple tree in 
this very garden had been. His mother 
had put a stake by it, and bound the bent sap- 
ling to the support with care, leaving it thus 
a long time. 

Sam glanced across 
the garden to where 
the tree stood, and 
laughed aloud in his 
joy. It had grown tall, 
straight, and thrifty. 

That would be the way with Bunny when he 
should have been for a while under the care of 
people who knew how to stake and bind him. 

“She ’d look to me to ’tend to it, now I 
knows it can be done,” he muttered. “She 
give Bunny to me whenst she was dying.” 

And so she had, passing over Millie, who 
was her eldest-born, and also her husband, 

■ [33] 



SAM 


who might be supposed to be the natural re- 
cipient of such a charge. Dying eyes see 
clearly and instinctively recognize those fit- 
test for responsibility. 

Sam hoed and meditated until a creaking, 
lumbering sound, accompanied by shouts and 
expostulations reached him from the road be- 
yond. Charlie was returning from the mill, 
and reasoning with his team after the manner 
of those who drive oxen. 

Sam dropped his hoe in the onion-patch, and 
went out to meet him. 


[ 34 ] 


THE GREAT UNDERTAKING 


3 — Sam 







* 


















. 
















CHAPTER II 

THE GREAT UNDERTAKING 

B EFORE he could arrange any plan to 
take Bunny to the hospital where 
spinal deformities were treated, Sam 
must have a talk with Charlie. The 
idea of consulting his father never crossed his 
mind. He was too much used to seeing his 
father shift his natural responsibilities to other 
shoulders for the proper relation ever to have 
existed between them. His only hope about 
his father was that he would not hinder. 

Charlie was different. He and Charlie had 
pulled in double harness, so to speak, ever 
since their mother died. 

“Hello, bud!” he hailed cheerily, as the 
wagon lumbered up. “How ’d you make out 
grindin’? We all ’lowed you ’d rented out the 
[ 37 ] 


5 A M 


miller, an’ sot up for yo’se’f, you stayed so 
long.” 

Charlie laughed, and sent a glance sky- 
ward. 

“ ’Tain’t sundown yet,” he observed, “an’ 
steers ain’t lightnin’. Thar was lots o’ grist 
ahead o’ me, too, an’ that kep’ me back. Let 
down the bars, Sam, an’ come on an’ help 
take out an’ feed. I ’ve done hollered all my 
wind away, an’ I ’m hongry as a hound puppy 
besides. Unpin the yoke yo’ side.” 

“Any news stirrin’?” Sam asked, as he re- 
leased the off steer. 

“Terry’s trial ’s sot for this week, an’ the 
mill-folks talked ’bout’n that mostly. Is dad 
in the house?” 

“I reckon so. He mostly is.” 

“Sheriff Austin come to mill soon arter I 
got thar,” Charlie pursued, “an’ he ’lowed 
he ’d be by here arter breakfast to-morrow to 
work a jury notice on dad, an’ tote him 
straight off to the cote-house to serve. Most 
[ 38 ] 


SAM 


o’ the fellows about dodges jury in layin’-by- 
corn time.” 

“Did Austin send word to dad by you?” 

“No, he did n’t,” laughed Charlie. “He 
’lowed I wa’n’t to jar my lips to him ’bout it. 
Said dad mout make up his mind ’bout Terry 
to-night a-purpose to dodge. Said he could n’t 
scuffle ’bout the deestric’ arter jurors, like a 
hawk arter chickens. He ’lowed we-all mout 
make out to spar’ dad to the kentry a few 
days. An’ I ’lowed back we ’d try. Austin ’s 
cornin’ with a team to head off rheumatism. 
Cute, ain’t he?” 

“He ’s takin’ a sight o’ trouble,” observed 
Sam. 

“He ’s paid extry for it. Terry ’s got all- 
fired keen lawyers who ain’t gwine to risk 
snatched-up jurors on the cote-house green. 
Austin ’s pickin’ men up outside. I wish we- 
all could go stead’n dad. The trial ’ll be a 
buster!” 

Terry was a man in the neighborhood who 
[ 39 ] 


SAM 


had been indicted for manslaughter. His case 
excited much local interest, and at any other 
time Sam would have been greatly interested 
in the gossip about the impending trial. 
Being preoccupied now, he simply regarded 
the news in its relation to his own plans. It 
would be convenient that his father should 
not be at home for a few days. 

After supper Sam got his brother out under 
the walnut tree and disclosed his intentions. 
At first Charlie was skeptical as to the possi- 
bility of a cure, and disposed to ridicule the 
idea. 

It took the elder boy fully half an hour of 
persuasion and argument, illustrated by the 
case of the apple tree and the pictures on the 
circular, to get him to look at the matter from 
the proper point of view. Then practical diffi- 
culties presented themselves. 

“How ’ll you git him thar?” Charlie de- 
manded, feeling that he had Sam at advan- 
tage. “You ain’t got no money to ride on the 
[ 40 ] 


SAM 


train, an’ it ’s a long way off, you say. How ’ll 
you travel?” 

Sam rolled over on his back and kicked up 
his legs in the moonlight, slapping them re- 
soundingly. 

“Them fellows ha 
toted me arter squir’i 
an’ rabbits a sight 
miles befo’ now,” he c 
dared cheerfully, “an’ 

I look to ’em to tote me 
down yonder. What ’s 
to hinder?” 

“Bun ’s to hinder. He ’ll git 
wearied out ridin’ pickaback. 

It ’ll take you consid’r’ble time to pat the 
grit that far. He ’ll drap off’n yo’ back like 
a ripe acorn, he will.” 

Sam chuckled. 

“You ain’t got good sense, Charlie,” he said 
reprovingly. “I ain’t ’lowin’ to kill the baby 
a-curin’ him. I ’m agwine to haul him in his’n 
[ 41 ] 




S A M 


wagon. It ’s strong an’ runs easy. We ’ll 
have to tote his bundle o’ clo’es an’ a clean 
shirt for me an’ some victuals. When we ’ve 
eat up what we start with I ’ll work for folks 
along the road an’ git more. See?” 

Charlie did, and out of large ignorance and 
inexperience decided that the scheme was 
good. More than that, he fell into it with en- 
thusiasm, and volunteered to go, too, and 
help with the “horse work.” 

It took Sam another half an hour to drive 
him from this position. He had feared from 
the very first that Charlie would want to go, 
too. 

“You know what dad is,” he expostulated 
earnestly. “If he ’lows any work ’ll fall on 
him, he ’ll put his foot down an’ sw’ar the thing 
ain’t no ’count, an’ we-all shan’t go. He ’ve 
got the power, too, bein’ we air his’n till we 
come o’ age. Millie can’t stand up to every- 
thing. She ’s got all she can do now, cookin’ 
an’ washin’ an’ mendin’ for we-all. You stay. 




Charlie, an’ hold our een’ o’ the log up till I 
gits back. Dad won’t let us both go.” 

“Dad ain’t gwine to let ary one o’ us go!” 

Charlie declared. “He ’ll pull agin you, you ’ll 

__ _ » 

see. 

“But you ’ll pull with me, won’t you, bud?” 
Sam entreated. “Now I ’m addled ’long o’ the 
notion Bun mout be cured, I can’t git no rest 
till I try fur it. I ’m ’stracted to try ! Look 
here, Charlie, I gits haunted, times, thinkin’ 
if it had n’t been for my leavin’ him to crawl 
off’n the porch that time an’ cripple hese’f, 
Bun mout’r been straight like we-all. I ’m 
’bleeged to take him down thar ; I ’m ’bleeged 
to help him git shut o’ the harm I done him !” 

His tone was passionate; his breath came 
sobbingly, and his rough hands shook as they 
clasped his knees. Charlie was moved by the 
reflex of his emotion, and stretched out his 
own brown paw and laid it on his brother’s. 

“I ’m with you, bud, anyhow you choose to 
fix it,” he said. 


[ 43 ] 


SAM 


Recognizing the strategic value of the 
sheriff’s visit, Sam forbore to proffer his re- 
quest to take Bunny to “see a smart doctor 
whar could cure crooked backs” until his 
father was in a whirl of nervous excitement 
over the unusual demand upon his energies. 

Flattered on the one side by the sheriff’s 
cunning importunities, and beset by Sam on 
the other, the father, probably not clearly 
understanding the boy’s proposition, declared 
irritably that he might do as he liked; he — 
Colston — “could n’t be pestered whenst he had 
important business to ’tend to.” 

When the sheriff had driven away with the 
father, Sam flapped his arms against his sides 
in imitation of a rooster, and crowed trium- 
phantly. Then he dragged a stout little 
wooden wagon from under the porch, greased 
its axles, and set vigorously about prepara- 
tions for his own departure. 

In less than an hour the little cart had been 
stored with a change or two of clothing, a tin 
[ 44 ] 



The expedition was ready to move 












» ' ' ‘ • 1 * 








. 





































































































































































































































































SAM 


pail of provisions, a pillow, and a bedquilt. 
Bunny had been carefully washed and dressed, 
and the expedition was ready to move. 

At the last, Millie, a loving-hearted girl, 
broke down, and cried out that Sam was a 
fool to suppose any doctor could cure the child. 

“He ’ll git hurted worse !” she sobbed, hys- 
terically. “I can’t ’gree to let him go. Stay 
with sister, Bunny! Say you ’d ruther stay at 
home with sister.” 

But Bunny was wholly in favor of going. 
He was much fonder of Sam than he was of 
his sister, and delighted at the thought of a 
journey. He bobbed up and down in his little 
wagon gleefully. “Good-by, sister!” he chirped 
merrily. “You take keer o’ my chickens an’ 
my puppy till I git back. Git up, horsey !” and 
he whistled blithely and cracked his little whip. 

Both boys laughed. 

“Thar, now,” spoke Sam, “he wants to go 
his own self. He ’s mine, anyhow — mammy 
£ in him to me. An’ dad ’lowed I mout take 

[ 47 ] 


SAM 


him. I ’ll fetch him back all right, Millie ; 
don’t you fret.” 

Then he kissed his sister affectionately, 
shook hands with Charlie, seized the wagon- 
tongue, and set forth on his journey. 

His plan was to circle around Marketville, 
and strike the railway farther along. The 
preacher had said that this railway would take 
a person down to the coast city, and Sam pro- 
posed to keep near and follow it. 

The largeness of the undertaking did not 
trouble him. Ignorance is spared many anxie- 
ties, and Sam felt sure he should work out all 
right. He knew the name of the railway, and 
could ask questions. He was in excellent 
humor with himself. To have started was a 
great thing. And with parental consent, too, 
so that he need not feel like a runaway ! Sam 
smiled complacently, and stepped out briskly. 

He avoided the turning which led to the vil- 
lage. Bunny who was familiar with that part 
of the way, called him to order here. 

[ 48 ] 


S A M 


“ You ’re gwine wrong, Sam,” he protested. 
“That ’s the turn to Aunt Millie’s. I knows it 
by the broke-off cedar at the fork. Y ou ’ll git 
lost if you don’t mind.” 

“No, I won’t, honey,” Sam replied. “We-all 
ain’t gwine to Aunt Millie’s now. We ’re gwine 
further.” 

“Whar to?” 

“To town, whar heaps o’ houses is. An’ 
pretty things an’ marbles an’ candy an’ sugar 
dogs.” 

Sam sought to make the prospect alluring 
by mention of things Bun had seen at the vil- 
lage store and admired. 

The child was content enough, although he 
asked many questions. He preferred Sam to 
any living being, and was amused with his 
journey through the woods, and the stop at 
a spring for the midday meal. Sam let him 
walk a little when his legs became cramped 
and told him interesting things to beguile the 
journey. 


[ 49 ] 


SAM 


Late in the afternoon, on emerging from a 
skirt of woods, the children beheld the rail- 
way. Sam drew a breath of relief. He was 
beginning to fear he had made too wide a 
detour and should miss it. 

The railway emerged from a cutting, 
stretched away across a wide pine-barren, and 
entered another woods ahead. Sam made his 
way down to it, and trotted beside the track. 
The scrub had been cleared away for some 
distance on either side of the roadbed, and the 
little wagon could run beside the low embank- 
ment. 

Bunny was amused at first, but presently 
the jolting over the rough ground made his 
back ache. He endured the pain as long as he 
could, being a plucky little fellow; but by and 
by he began to whimper and complain that he 
was tired and wanted his supper and to go to 
bed. 

Sam comforted him as well as he could, and 
eased him with the pillow and quilt. Then he 

[ 50 ] 


SAM 


gave him a cake Millie had put into the pail, 
and moved forward more carefully. 

The roadbed was close to them, and soon 
the rails began to vibrate, with a low, singing 
noise which attracted the boys’ attention. 
Bunny stopped fretting to listen — it sounded 
pretty. 

“What’s singin’ so easy, Sam?” he ques- 
tioned. “I don’t see no bird nowhar.” 

Sam did not either, and said so. They were 
unaccustomed to railroads, and ignorant that 
the sound they admired was caused by the 
oncoming of a train. It was a surprise to 
them, therefore, when a long freight train 
dashed into sight, coming straight toward 
them, with its headlight aflame, and a mighty 
howl of escaping steam. 

Sam cheered and waved his hand in re- 
sponse to the trainmen’s greeting, but Bunny, 
who had never seen an engine so close before, 
was frightened almost out of his wits, and 
cried lustily, refusing to believe the danger 
4— Sam [ 51 ] 


SAM 


past, or himself unhurt, even when the train 
was out of sight. He called Sam names, when 
his brother tried to coax him out of his terror, 
and was as naughty as a wofully tired little 
boy could be. 

“I want to go home ! ” he wailed. “Millie ’s 
done cooked supper, an’ we-all ain’t got nothin’ 
fitten to eat. I want my cradle, Sam — does 
you hear me? Take me right home, I tell 
you!” 

Sam coaxed and soothed, promising all sorts 
of things provided Bunny would cease crying. 
Finally he got the child quieted, and took time 
to look about them. 

They were in a pine woods, lonely and de- 
serted; the tree-stems stood close, their dark 
branches interlacing and shutting out the sky. 
Nowhere was there a sign of human habita- 
tion; and but for the presence of the railway 
the children might have fancied themselves 
the only living creatures on the surface of the 
earth. 


[ 52 ] 


S A M 


Sam pushed on wearily, acutely conscious 
of the subdued sobbing which occasionally 
broke forth from the little wagon. The twi- 
light deepened, and the woods were very still. 
They were descending, and there was a good 
path beside the track. 

Presently the moon rose and an opening 


aoneared among the trees, 
a small clearing had 



been made. Rejoicing 


in the increased light, 
Sam turned aside to it 
and found that it con- 


tained a log cabin, 


used formerly for a camp by railroad hands. 
There was a spring near it, revealed by the 
gurgling of water. 

The cabin was deserted, but none the less 
welcome for that. It would give good shelter 
for the night. Bunny was not used to sleep- 
ing out of doors. 

As Sam pulled the little wagon into the 


[ 53 ] 


SAM 


space before the door a rushing, pattering 
sound, accompanied by a heavy panting, drew 
nearer from behind them, and as he faced 
around to discover its cause, something big 
and black precipitated itself against Sam and 
almost knocked him over. 

“It’s a bear!” shrieked Bunny in a panic, 
and straightway he began to howl more lustily 
than ever. 

Sam laughed aloud. His hands were on a 
familiar collar, and he could see well enough 
who the intruder was, even before the joyful 
bark of his own dog, Trevor, rang in his ears. 

“Stop yer noise, Bun,” he said, blithely. 
“It ’s only ole Trevor, an’ he ain’t going to eat 
you. I fastened him up befo’ we-all started, 
but he must’r scratched out an’ tracked us. 
Down, Trevor! down, ole fellow!” 

Having brought matches, Sam speedily kin- 
dled a fire on the wide hearth. Then they 
brought in some armfuls of the dry pine- 
needles with which the ground outside was 
[ 54 ] 


SAM 


covered ; got water from the spring, and 
housed his wagon and freight. 

He warmed a bottle of coffee which Millie 
had stowed away in the wagon, and portioned 
out the food he had left, reserving a part for 
breakfast. Then he fed his little brother, loos- 
ened his clothing and put him to bed, snugly 
folded about with the bedquilt. 

The child, made comfortable, dropped off to 
sleep contentedly. 


[ 55 ] 








• 
























»1 

1 







t 



WORKING HIS WAY 








S A M 


CHAPTER III 

WORKING HIS WAY 

B UNNY slept well in the lonely shanty, 
but Sam could not readily follow the 
example. He was excited by his 
adventure, and overwearied by the 
day’s exertion and responsibility. 

The appearance of the dog had alarmed 
him, causing' him to fancy that his father might 
have returned, repented of his permission, and 
set out to reclaim them. Then he remembered 
that there had been scarcely time for pursuit. 

Even while he listened for possible footsteps 
fatigue overcame him, and he crept to Bunny’s 
side and slept. 

Early next morning Trevor began to whim- 
per and scratch at the door. Sam, half-asleep 
and not quite certain of his whereabouts, 

[ 59 ] 


S A M 


scrambled to his feet and let the dog out. It 
was a lovely morning, fresh and dewy, with a 
soft veil of mist lightly lifting as the sun rose. 

Trevor bounced about, wagging his tail and 
yelping joyously; then he sped away to the 
spring and lapped up the water eagerly. Two 
cows, also quenching their morning thirst, dis- 
turbed by the dog’s onslaught, moved hastily. 

Sam, familiar with the midsummer vagrancy 
of cows, could tell that they had not been 
milked the previous evening, and rightly con- 
jectured that they had strayed beyond legiti- 
mate bounds. 

Knowing well that the owners of the cows 
would be very glad to have them milked under 
such circumstances, he glanced at Bunny, who 
was still sleeping, and sallied forth with his 
bucket. 

“It jus’ ruins cows to go unmilked,” he 
meditated, squatting down beside one of the 
animals and drawing forth the milk with ac- 
customed fingers. 


[ 60 ] 


SAM 


Still his conscience would let him take only 
a pint of milk from each cow, and the milk- 
distended udders showed no difference. He 
wanted none for himself, he thought; only a 
little for Bunny’s breakfast, and some to take 
with them in the bottle. The child was used 
to his cup of milk for the morning meal. 

Sam placed the bucket in the spring to cool 
while he looked about for blackberry bushes. 
At one side of the clearing he found a patch, 
and filled the crown of his hat with the ripe 
fruit. 

“I wish I knowed whar them cows belong, 
an’ I ’d drive ’em home,” he observed to Tre- 
vor, as he passed them returning to the house. 
“It ’s mighty ill-convenient for folks’s cows 
to stray. G’lang, madam! G’lang home! 
Whoop-ee !” 

He stooped for pine cones, and began to 
pelt the cows with these harmless missiles. 

“Whenst they gits started with the notion 
somebody ’s behind ’em, they gen’ally keeps on 
[ 61 ] 


SAM 


home tharselves,” he reasoned, out of full ex- 
perience of cow nature and methods. “They 
feel druv plumb till they git to co’-pen. Thar,” 
as the animals disappeared among the bushes, 
“I reckon they ’ll keep on now, an’ that ’ll holp 
some. Thar milker will likely be callin’ some- 
what” 

The boys had a merry breakfast, and Bunny, 
refreshed by his long sleep and the good milk, 
chattered like a blackbird. 

“Whar be we goin’, Sammy, anyhow?” he 
demanded. 

“Down the kentry,” replied Sam, warily. 

He had decided not yet to tell the child their 
destination nor the object of the journey. 
Bunny was such an ignorant baby that any- 
thing unusual frightened him. 

“If he ’lowed anything was to be did to his 
back I ’d never git him for’ard a step,” Sam 
reasoned. “He ’d be skeered nigh to death.” 

“Who lives down thar?” Bunny wanted to 
know as his brother made him comfortable for 
[ 62 ] 


S A M 


the start. “Whose folks be we gwine to see? 
Dad’s or mammy’s?” 

“Nuther one,” replied Sam, trotting for- 
ward. “The folks we air gwine to see ain’t no 
blood kin to we-all, but they ’re ourn all the 
same. I reckon they ’re eve’ybody’s, like God 
be. They ’ll be pow’ful proud to see us, honey, 
an’ arter we ’ve stopped awhile, we ’ll skedad- 
dle back home agin. This is ourn ’broad, yo’s 
an’ mine. Don’t you like it?” 

Being neither hungry, weary, nor in pain, 
Bunny graciously testified to satisfaction with 
Sam and the world in general. Trevor’s ad- 
vent had delighted him, after the scare of his 
arrival had passed. It seemed more natural 
to have their dog with them. Trevor always 
followed when Sam dragged Bunny about in 
the woods at home. 

He whistled to the dog merrily, and began 
to sing to himself a camp-meeting hymn which 
Millie had taught him. 

For several miles the way, still descending, 
[ 63 ] 


S A M 


led through the pine woods. Then the coun- 
try opened. The railway, curving to the left, 
passed through another open covered with 
broom-sedge and scrub, and threw itself across 
a river by means of a graceful iron bridge. At 
the river Sam pulled up and glanced about for 
a boat. Seeing none, he proceeded to examine 
the bridge. 

The mountain method of crossing a stream 
in summer “by dog ferry” — that is, wading — 
was out of the question here. The banks were 
too steep, and the broad stream looked deep 
as well as rapid. 

This was Sam’s first railroad bridge, and 
he had a very low opinion of it. It seemed 
inadequate and only half-finished. 

“Must’r been skeerce o’ timber,” was his 
comment to Bunny. “They ain’t put down no 
floor. How in the name o’ sense does folks 
an’ horses look to git across on the j’ists?” 

Bunny scrambled out and reconnoitered 
also. 


[ 64 ] 


S A M 


“They ’d drap th’ou,” he decided, “an’ 
horses ’d break thar legs. I ’s ’feared.” 

“What o’?” Sam demanded. 

His plan was to carry his little brother 
across on his back, and then come back for 
the wagon. The crossties looked close 
enough together to hold up the wheels. 

“’Feared o’ the 
water!” the child re- 
torted, backing away 
from it. “Thar ’s such 
a lot, an’ it ’s in such 
a hurry I It skeers 
me!” 

“No, it don’t!” coaxed Sam, bending his 
back invitingly. “Git on my back an’ shut 
yo’ eyes up tight. I ’ll take keer o’ you.” 

Bunny sat himself down on the ground ob- 
stinately. 

“I sha’n’t!” he declared. “Thar ain’t no 
flo’, an’ you ’ll step th’ou’. I jes’ hates it !” 

Then, remembering how the train had 
[ 65 ] 



SAM 


dashed upon them the previous evening, he 
added : 

“Somethin’ mout ketch we-all. Trains is 
so sly an’ sneakin’. We-all mout git knocked 
off an’ mashed. I ain’t gwine nary step!” 

Poor little man ! His days were being filled 
with strange and unaccustomed things, for 
which he could see no reason. He was fright- 
ened and perplexed, and thought Sam ought 
not make him do things for which he had no 
mind. 

“You ’s mean to me !” he cried out, pettishly. 
“I ’ll tell Millie an’ dad!” 

Sam moved the wagon aside and sat him- 
self down patiently to coax. It did not occur 
to him to pick up the child and bear him across 
willy-nilly. They always humored the baby; 
so Sam assured him there was no danger, ap- 
pealed to Bunny’s manhood, and drew allur- 
ing pictures of the joys awaiting them on the 
other side. 

Even Trevor took a hand in the blandish- 

[ 66 ] 


S A M 


ments, jumping on the bridge a little way and 
then jumping back, barking gayly, and evi- 
dently giving them a lead over. 

Bunny was tiny and frail, but .he possessed 
a will of his own, the strength of which had 
been increased by humoring. Planting his 
hands on his shrunken little knees, he set his 
brother at defiance. It was a family adage 
that “the baby was little, but he rode with a 
big whip.” 

Sam was about at his wits’ end when the 
rails began to ring again, but with a lighter 
sound than the vibration of the previous even- 
ing. The children turned in the direction of 
the sound, and Sam rose to his feet. 

A handcar, with two section men on it, 
swung round the curve and came toward 
them, going slowly, as the men were in no 
apparent hurry to get to their work. As they 
came abreast of him, Sam hailed and the car 
stopped. 

“Hello, kids!” the man at the crank cried 

5— Sam - 


SAM 


jovially. “What ’re you doin’ down here on 
our track? Does yer mammy know you ’re 
gaddin’?” 

“This here road youm?” Sam inquired with 
interest. 

“We, us’s an’ company’s,” the fellow re- 
plied, with a laugh. “Don’t it suit you?” 

“Yer bridge don’t!” Sam retorted. “ ’Tain’t 
got no flo’! My leetle brother’s afeard to 
cross it. Why’n’t you lay some planks down 
whilst you was buildin’? ’T would be a sight 
mo’ handier for folks.” 

The men grinned. 

“So ’t would, sonny,” they agreed. “But 
you see the comp’ny wa’nt settin’ out to be 
agreeable. We-all mout report the public not 
satisfied with the ’commodations pervided, an’ 
hollerin’ for planks.” They laughed loudly. 
“Whar’s the chap thet ’s ’feared? Let him 
stan’ out, so we-all kin git his measure.” 

Sam moved aside and Bunny rose slowly 
to his feet, pushing his hat back so that he 
[ 68 ] 


SAM 


might get a better view of this queer wagon. 
The men exchanged glances and stopped jok- 
ing. 

“Pore leetle chappie !” muttered one. “He ’s 
pow’ful bad off, to be sho’.” Then he sof- 
tened his gruff voice, and addressed the child 
kindly: “So you’re ’feared o’ the bridge, little 
un?” 

Bunny nodded. He was not at all shy. 

“Sam was gwine to tote me, but I would n’t 
let him,” he remarked calmly. 

“Would you be ’feared to cross on this?” 
the man asked, stamping his foot on the car 
flooring and leaning over the plank. “It ’s 
mighty solid.” 

“Go ’cross in you-all’s wagon?” 

“Yes, siree!” 

“An’ Sam too?” 

“Ef agreeable.” 

“An’ Trevor?” indicating the dog, who 
stood with sharp ears cocked at attention. 

“The mo’, the merrier.” 

[ 69 ] 


SAM 


“All right. I reckon I kin make out to stan’ 
it that-a-way.” 

His tone was dubious still, but he allowed 
Sam to lift him on the car. Sam looked up at 
the men gratefully. 

“He ’s sp’iled some, the baby is,” he ex- 
plained in a low tone. “Bein’ ’dieted, we-all 
could n’t never cross him none. I ’ll be 
obleeged to you for holpin’ me across. I ’ve got 
to kyar him a good piece further on t’other 
side.” 

The men helped him get his things on the 
car and settle Bunny on his lap. 

“How does you gen’ally cross?” one in- 
quired, taking it for granted that the children 
lived in the neighborhood, and were going 
somewhere on a visit. 

“With Bun?” questioned Sam, warily. “I 
ain’t never fetched him this way befo’.” 

Finding that the children were going as far 
as the next station — which, to Sam, seemed 
a safe thing to admit — the men took them 
[ 70 ] 


SAM 


down to the limit of their section, and at part- 
ing, pointed out a short cut across the fields 
which would be better wheeling for the little 
wagon. 

“We 'll be along here agin 'bout the end o' 
the week," the crank-man said, “an' if you 're 
aimin’ to git back you mout look out for us." 

Sam thanked him earnestly. 

“That 's all right," said the man. “I 've got 
a whole drove o’ kids at home. None o’ 'em 
ain't ’flicted, though, thank God ! Here, baby," 
diving for his dinner-pail, “here 's a piece o' 
pie for you. My wife 's a master hand at pie." 

Bunny accepted the huge piece of black- 
berry pie graciously, and waved his hand to 
the men as long as they were in sight. He 
was in high spirits, and had enjoyed his 
smoooth, joltless ride. The car propelled by 
man-power had not alarmed him like those 
drawn by a fiery engine. One was under- 
standable, the other an unknown monster. 

“If we-all jus' had a wagon like that, we 
[ 71 ] 


SAM 


could git whar we ’re gwine in a hurry,” he 
chattered to Sam, as they looked about for a 
shady place to eat their pie and bread and 
milk. “Could n’t you borry one, Sam?” 

“Nary time,” Sam laughed. “Them ’ar cars 
is built jus’ for railroad folks, an’ kyar’nt be 
borryed nohow. They gin us a good lift, 
though, an’ we kin camp a while an’ eat. 
Here ’s a shady place under this big sycamore. 
An’ I ’low thar ’s a spring in that bottom. Y ou 
rest here whilst I run an’ see. Don’t let 
Trevor dab his nose in the victuals, smellin’ 
round.” 

But Trevor was otherwise engaged. He 
had discovered an interesting hole in a bank, 
and was sitting down before it meditating. 

He was a young dog, with more curiosity 
than discretion, and he had never been so far 
afield before. There were numberless things 
in the material world Trevor had still no ac- 
quaintance with. This was one of them. 

He cocked his head on one side, and nosed 
[ 72 ] 


SAM 


about it. The bank was full of tiny perfora- 
tions beside this central hole. It must be the 
burrow of some animal, possibly a ground- 
hog. 

Trevor smote the bank with his paw, and 
then listened. There was movement within, 
and a whirring noise ; he smote it again. 
Louder movement and a more continuous 
humming. 

Plainly this was the abode of small game 
of some sort, such as it behooved a dog who 
thought well of himself to find out all about. 
That murmuring inside was a challenge. 
Trevor pricked up his ears, yelped a shrill defi- 
ance, and fell to digging furiously. 

The dirt flew right and left, the dog was 
getting excited. Bunny, from beside his 
wagon, looked on with eagerness and wished 
for Sam to hurry. Surely it must be a ground- 
hog! 

Something smelled sweet and alluring to 
Trevor when he thrust his nose down, and he 

[ 73 ] 


SAM 


dug faster than ever. Suddenly he gave a 
howl of anguish, and rolled backward, smiting 
the air and rubbing his muzzle with his paws. 
He had dug up a colony of mud-wasps. 

Thick and fast, in squads, in regiments, the 
insects swarmed out and about the dog, plant- 
ing their stings in the poor creature’s skin. 
Trevor rolled and howled, and fought with his 
paws. The atmosphere seemed alive with 
furious insects, and he knew not which way to 
turn. 

Bunny laughed until the tears came, albeit 
he was sorry for Trevor, and between parox- 
ysms yelled for Sam to come to the rescue. 
The dog looked so funny, rolling about. 

Sam came running from the hollow with 
his pail full of water, dashed to the rescue, and 
emptied the contents of his pail over the com- 
batants. The onslaught was so sudden and 
the splash so great that hostilities were sus- 
pended for a moment, during which the dog 
bounced to his feet, tucked his tail between his 
[ 74 ] 


S A M 


legs, and flew for the hollow. He had an idea ! 
A few of the more belligerent members of the 
swarm pursued him, stinging where they 
could; but Trevor knew what to do now. He 
sped straight for the river, where he took to 
water, otter-fashion, immersing himself com- 
pletely, and rubbing his afflicted nose against 
the cool pebbles at the bottom. 

Sam moved camp at once. “They ’ll be arter 
us, next,” he observed. “Trevor ’s stirred ’em 
up most pow’ful.” 

“They stirred he up to pay back,” grinned 
Bunny unfeelingly. “He sp’iled thar house, 
an’ they sp’iled him’s nose for smellin’. Look 
at he!” as the dog joined them dejectedly, in 
obedience to a whistle from Sam. “Don’t he 
look sorry an’ com’cal?” 

Sam examined his favorite, then mixed up 
some soft red mud and applied it to the stings, 
which were swelling. It would take the sore- 
ness out. 

“Quit laughin’, Bun,” he expostulated. 

[ 75 ] 


SAM 


“The creeter’s sufferin’. You oughter feel 
sorry for him. I hate things to be mocked at 
what ’s in pain.” 

“I ain’t mockin’ him!” cried Bunny indig- 
nantly. “I ’s jus’ laughin’ ’cause he swelled 
so lopsided. I saved him some o’ my milk, I 
did. Here ’t is in the cup now. Trevor knows 
I ain’t done him no harm. Don’t you, Trevor?” 

The dog tilted his lopsided countenance at 
an angle which permitted him to regard 
Bunny over the swollen rim of one eye. The 
stings had ceased smarting, and he was glad 
of his dinner; so he leered at the boys so 
ludicrously that even Sam’s notions of sympa- 
thetic kindness were upset, and he laughed as 
heartily as Bunny. 

“Thar now!” crowed Bunny, pointing a re- 
buking finger; “who ’s mockin’ now?” 

“Stings quit hurtin’ whenst they begin to 
swell,” explained Sam. “He ain’t in pain now. 
Come on, both on you. We mus’ be trav- 
elin’.” » 


[ 76 ] 


S A M 


As evening drew on, they stopped at a house 
where they saw an elderly woman knitting on 
the porch, and Sam proposed to chop wood 
and milk the cows for her in exchange for 
some food and permission to sleep in an out- 
house. 

The woman eyed 
him suspiciously, and 
asked a good many 
questions, which Sam 
answered as well as he 
could. When Bunny 
was lifted from the 
wagon and staggered 
a little by reason of his 
legs being cramped, her face softened. 

“That thar ain’t nothin’ but a baby,” she ob- 
served. “An’ ’flicted, too! Whar air you 
totin’ him to? I ’ll be bounded you ’ve runned 
away from your folks.” 

Sam smiled queerly, and pointed to the 
child. 



[ 77 ] 


SAM 


“With him?” he questioned significantly. 
“Runaways don’t cumber tharselves this-a- 
way. My mammy ’s dead, an’ dad knows whar 
I ’m kyarin’ him to.” 

“Why n’t yer dad come hisse’f, if you ’re 
gwine to see kin-folks?” 

“Dad ’s hung on a jury, an’ mebbe won’t be 
loose fur a week,” Sam explained pleasantly. 
“He lets me tote the baby roun’. I takes keer 
on him mostly anyhow. Mammy gin him to 
me. Kin I do them jobs for the victuals?” 

“Tote the child in the house first,” said the 
woman, “an’ shove you-all’s little wagon under 
the porch out’n the way. I ’ll git you the milk- 
piggin, an’ the moolie cow down by them draw- 
bars is mine. The axe is at the woodpile. I ’m 
gwine to git supper.” 


[ 78 ] 


A CRUEL REVELATION 








































' 















































% l $ A 7 


. 



SAM 


CHAPTER IV 

A CRUEL REVELATION 

T HE woman kept Sam and Bunny with 
her all night, saying that the child 
was too weakly-looking to sleep in an 
outhouse. She let Sam help her 
through her morning work, and she fed all the 
little party well, including Trevor, whose 
adventures with the bees amused her greatly. 
She filled up the pail with food, and the bottle 
with milk. 

“That ’ll last you twill you git to your kin- 
folks’ house, I reckon,” she said. Then, glanc- 
ing sharply at Sam as she fastened the lid of 
the pail, she added, “You know your way, 
don’t you?” 

“I reckon I do,” Sam answered readily. 
“Well, that ’s a blessin’. I ’m new to these 
[ 81 ] 


S A M 


parts myself, an’ could n’t ’a’ showed you if you 
did n’t. Don’t you trot along too fast an’ 
yank that child about. ’Flicted folks ain’t 
lusty, like you be. Be studdy an’ keerful now, 
an’ don’t let nothin’ happen to him.” 

She stroked Bunny’s cheek, kissed him, and 
slipped a few June apples under his pillow. 

Sam promised all she required, smiling to 
himself as he did so. Had not he taken care 
of Bunny for years, day and night? And was 
he not even now straining every nerve to undo 
the one bit of harm he had let come near him? 

Of course, he would look out for Bunny. 

For several days they went on quietly, grad- 
ually leaving the hills behind them and getting 
into a more thickly settled region. Sam kept 
the railway in sight, but he no longer hugged 
the track as he had done at first. He was be- 
coming expert in making cross-cuts and avoid- 
ing bends. 

They had no more rides on handcars, but 
several times they were given long lifts in 

[ 82 ] 


S A M 


wagons. They fared very well for food. Most 
people will give children a meal even without 
remuneration, and Sam was a handy boy, 
always ready and willing to cut wood, fetch 
water, or rub down horses for the people who 
befriended them. 

They slept where they could, in beds or in 
the hay or corn-fodder, as it might chance. 
Sam always contrived to make Bunny com- 
fortable with the pillow and quilt, even when 
they were obliged to camp out. The weather 
was warm, and for the most part dry. 

Bunny had become quite reconciled to their 
vagrant existence, and had ceased talking of 
the home people, and teasing Sam to take 
him back to them. He was often troublesome, 
weary, and cross ; but Sam was accustomed to 
humoring him. 

The strangers they met were, in the main, 
kind to them, moved thereto by the child’s mis- 
fortune. Bunny wondered why people looked 
at him pitifully and made remarks about him. 

6— Sam [ 83 ] 


SAM 


He did not always like the things they said, 
nor relish being called names — “a cripple” 
and “spine-complainted.” He often thought 
people had no manners, and told Sam so 
roundly. 

He knew that he was not quite like Sam or 
Charlie — not tall nor strong ; but then he was 
only six years old, and his sister Millie had al- 
ways told him that he would “grow like a 
runt pig, arter he got age on him.” 

He had no real understanding wherein lay 
the difference, nor of his own marred appear- 
ance. He had never seen himself full length. 

There was a little mirror at home, framed 
in wood, which his father used when he shaved 
and Millie when she combed her hair. It hung 
above his reach ; but he had seen his own face 
in it numberless times. Only his face, how- 
ever, for the glass was small. 

Until he had started on this journey Bunny 
had seen only people who were accustomed 
to his appearance, and too kind to comment 
[ 84 ] 


SAM 


upon it. Now everybody they met made re- 
marks. 

With the new sights and novel experiences, 
Bunny’s mind was expanding, too. He began 
to put questions to Sam which the elder boy 
found it hard to evade. “What makes me 
dif’ent, Sammy?’’ he queried. “Folks do like 
I was. They say, ‘Po’ leetle creetur!’ whenst 
they look at me, like I were sick or silly. I 
ain’t sick nor foolish, an’ they oughtn’t talk 
that-a-way. ’Tain’t manners.” 

During a visit to his aunt once Bunny had 
seen an idiot — one “struck silly,” to use the 
local term. Folks had said, “Po’ creeter!” he 
remembered, as the afflicted one passed. In- 
stinctively he resented the term as applied to 
himself; the association made it obnoxious. 
He knew himself to be anything but “silly.” 

Sam looked down at him lovingly, and 
patted his shoulder. 

“You ’re leetle, .you see,” he responded, “an* 
you git so tired ! Folks think you ain’t nothin* 
[ 85 ] 


SAM 


but a baby, an’ whenst they git wind o’ 
yo’ havin’ no mammy, they feels sorry fur 
you.” 

His explanation sounded lame and inade- 
quate in his own ears, and he was more trou- 
bled than surprised to find Bunny sweep it 
aside with a contemptuous, “Shucks!” 

“Lot o’ ’em dunno nothin’ ’t all ’bout we- 
all’s mammy,” quoth he vigorously, “an’ we- 
all don’t tell ’em nothin’, nuther! Some on 
’em talk ’bout’n us, an’ don’t never jar thar 
lips to us. You can’t fool a possum, Sam. 
’Tain’t wuth while to try. Do bein’ sorry fur 
me make folks call me a humpback?” 

The pertinence of the query staggered 
Sam. 

“They ain’t got no better sense!” he said 
angrily. 

Bunny’s eyes twinkled with shrewdness. 

“What ’s a humpback?” he demanded. 

Sam was driven into a corner. He pushed 
back his hat and rubbed his hair about with 
[ 86 ] 


SAM 


hesitating fingers. He could think of no ex- 
planation that would not be mortifying. 

“A humpback ain’t strong an’ big like other 
chiren,” he finally evaded. “A humpback ’s 
puny an’ weakly.” 

“Won’t I git over it?” 

The little voice was very wistful. 

“Of co’se you will!” Sam asserted briskly. 
“You ain’t but six ye’rs ole. Look at me ! I ’m 
fo’teen, an’ that ’s more’n twice as ole, an’ I 
ain’t lusty like a man. Lots o’ big fellows at 
home could double me right up with one hand. 
Simon Jinkins could any time. Whenst you 
git age to you, you ’ll brace up an’ stiffen. 
You’re a runt pig now, you know, an’ that 
sort turns out fus’ cut heap o’ times.” 

This view of the case was familiar, there- 
fore more comforting than would have been 
a new one. A child is easily satisfied, and for 
the moment Bunny let his mind be diverted by 
the natural objects around to which Sam 
eagerly invited his attention. 

[ 87 ] 

i 


S A M 


But he was destined ere long to realize 
wherein lay the difference between himself and 
others. 

They had been on the roads more than a 
week, and so far had been blessed with warmth 
and sunshine. Now a change came. For half 
a day it lowered, with a steady banking of 
clouds' from horizon to zenith, and a faraway 
mutter of thunder, which gradually drew 
nearer. 

Toward evening a wind swept down from 
the mountains, slanting the broom-sedge and 
scrub pines in the pastures, and rasping to- 
gether the long blades of the Indian corn. Sam 
cast a weather eye aloft and began to hasten. 
A wetting would be bad for Bunny. 

“It ’s cornin’ on to rain hard. Bun !” he 
called. “Tuck down under the quilt good an’ 
hold tight. I ’m gwine to gallop.” 

The storm neared. The wind brought 
with it a smell of the rain that was just behind. 
Lightning leaped athwart the sky in sharp, 
[ 88 ] 


S A M 


jagged flashes, and the rattle of the thunder 
sounded ominously close. Trevor uneasily 
slunk up close to the wagon, his tail between 
his legs. Sam, running at speed, looked about 
for shelter. 

Some distance ahead 
was a cluster of houses 
about a railway station, 
and nearer, by several 
hundred yards, stood 
a neat frame house in a 
small yard. As the chil- 
dren neared it, rain be- 
gan to fall in heavy, 
pattering drops, and 
Sam, in too great a hurry for ceremony, opened 
the yard-gate and ran in with his wagon. 

The dog sped up the path ahead, and 
crawled under the porch for shelter. A 
woman who had seen them from a window, 
opened the door , and asked Sam what he 
wanted. 



[ 89 ] 


SAM 


“My little brother ’s delicate, 1 ” he said polite- 
ly. “Kin we-all shelter till the rain’s over?” 

The woman nodded and opened the door 
wider, watching as Sam put Bunny, bundled 
up in a quilt, on the porch and emptied his 
wagon. 

“I ’m obleeged to you, ma’am,” he said, as 
he brought the child inside. 

The woman led the way into a room on one 
side of the little entrance-hall, and gave the 
boys seats. She resumed her own place beside 
the window, and sewed while she plied Sam 
with questions. She was young and rather 
pretty, and, as she presently told Sam, was the 
wife of a section-master named Minter. 

The room was well furnished, and Bunny, 
established on Sam’s lap and still folded in his 
quilt, thought it the prettiest place he ever was 
in. The cheap lithographs on the walls, the 
gaudy vases on the mantel, the scarlet mats on 
the bureau, under toilet bottles with roses and 
humming-birds painted on them, were all, to 
[ 90 ] 


S A M 


the little mountaineer, visions of exquisite 
beauty. 

Never in his life, not even in the village 
store, had he seen such beautiful things; and 
his soul was filled with delight, and a great 
longing to examine them all more closely. 

Most of all was Bunny attracted by the large 
mirror which surmounted the bureau, in which 
he could see a portion of the room reflected, 
and also half of his brother’s face. His eyes 
danced with eagerness, and he lifted himself 
on Sam’s knee, stretching his neck like a 
pranking pullet. This maneuver brought 
into view the top of his own straw-colored 
head, and set him quivering with eagerness. 

“Manners,” as taught by Millie, forbade his 
making remarks to the stranger about her 
possessions, but he could not forbear an ec- 
static whisper to Sam. 

“Hiest up yo’ head, an’ tu’n it roun’. I mus* 
see if all o’ you kin come in right squar’.” 

Sam did as he was bidden, casting a glance 
[ 91 ] 


SAM 


out of the corner of his eye at the looking- 
glass wherein to him Bunny’s little pale face 
was visible. He nudged Bunny to quiet him. 

Presently a couple of children, girls of five 
and seven, came in from another room, staring 
at the strangers with open-eyed curiosity. 
One plucked her mother’s sleeve and pointed. 
“Who be they?” she demanded. 

She was a spoiled child, and her ignorance 
was without the proud reserve of the little 
mountaineers. 

Mrs. Minter glanced down at her. 

“Jus* chil’en come in to git shut o’ the 
rain,” she explained. “They are gwine down 
country to thar kin. Ain’t that what you 
said?” she asked, turning toward the pair. 

“To some folks o’ oum,” assented Sam po- 
litely. He had come to feel that the asylum 
people in some way belonged to them of 
right. 

The storm was beginning to abate ; the rain 
fell lightly, a sort of thick drizzle. The soaked 

[ 92 ] 





% 

W-Mii 




rmim 




<■ v.v; 


W~, 






pteMpgMi 

BHPXk '".•■•! 

^^»lllilli 


Who be they ? ” she demanded? 








S A M 


earth refused to absorb more, and moisture 
stood about in puddles. Mrs. Minter, glanc- 
ing through the window, uttered an exclama- 
tion of annoyance. 

“Thar ’s that outdacious Brahma hen got 
all her chickens out in the rain,” she fretted, 
“an’ every last chicken will be drowned. 
Bother take her !” 

She rose hurriedly 
from her seat. Sam 
rose also and stood 
Bunny on the floor. 

“Hens will be aggervatin’,” he said cheer- 
ily. “Look like they’d ruther. My sister’s 
alius fussin’ at ourn. Let me git ’em up for 
you. It ’s rainin’ yet, an’ you ’ll git draggled. 
Stay here, Bunny, ’long o’ them pretty little 
gals. I ’ll be back in a minute.” 

Mrs. Minter said she would be “more than 
obliged” to him, and gave him a piece of corn- 
bread with which to lure the hen back to her 



coop. 


[ 95 ] 


SAM 


Sam hastened out. If he made himself use- 
ful, she might let them remain for the night. 
Another storm seemed to be coming up. 

Bunny, left to his own devices, shook him- 
self free of the quilt, and advanced toward the 
other children with great friendliness. He 
was a sociable little fellow, and tired of hold- 
ing his tongue. 

“I ’ve got a hen an’ chickens up home, if 
sister ain’t let ’em all die,” he said. She ’s a 
speckled topknot, an’ she ’s got sebenteen 
chickens. Dad says ’tis a sight for one hen 
to tote.” 

Meeting with no response, he advanced 
nearer. One of the little girls was pretty, with 
yellow curls and china-blue eyes. Bunny mind- 
ful of his manners, held out his hand to her. 

“Howdy !” he said, genially. “I ’s Bunny 
Colston. What ’s yo’ name? We all kin play, 
can’t we?” 

The child backed away from him, and 
caught hold of her mother’s dress. 

[ 96 ] 


SAM 


“I sha’n’t play with you,” she retort^cl 
rudely. “You’s ugly, an’ yo’ back's all 
humped out !” 

Bunny looked astonished. The other child 
also jerked her mother’s skirts. 

‘‘What makes him so ugly, ma?” she de- 
manded. “What makes him so crooked?” 

Mrs. Minter had been watching Sam 
through the window. She turned at the chil- 
dren’s call, and regarded Bunny with hard 
curiosity. 

“He’s humpbacked,” she announced, after 
scrutiny. That ’s what ’s the matter with 
him. His back ’s been broke.” 

“An’ patched up crooked-crooked-crooked !” 
chanted the larger child viciously. 

Bunny’s face paled, then flushed crimson; 
his eyes flashed. 

“ ’Tain’t broke !” he asserted fiercely. “It ’s 
jus’ as good as anybody’s back. ’Tain’t nothin’ 
the matter wid me !” 

The woman laughed. The child’s anger 

[ 97 ] 


5 A M 


and his pitiful assertion seemed funny to her. 
Her children laughed also and stuck out their 
tongues at Bunny. 

The little fellow backed away from them. 

‘‘I ain’t no humpback,” he muttered; but his 
voice shook. 

“Ain’t you?” laughed the woman. “Sakes 
alive, child! Ain’t anybody ever told you 
befo’ you is deformed? Ain’t you never seed 
yo’se’f?” 

Then she did a cruel thing. Stepping across 
to the bureau, she tilted the mirror to the 
proper angle and drew the child in front of it, 
turning him a little sidewise. “Look over yo’ 
shoulder,” she directed. Then, catching hold 
of one of her own straight-backed children, 
she stationed her beside the deformed little 
one. 

“See the diff’ence now?” she questioned, 
and laughed again. 

“See me, straight, an’ yo’ crooked-crooked- 
crooked?” mocked the child shrilly. 

[ 98 ] 


SAM 


Bunny did see. His face paled, his head 
drooped, and his eyes filled. He was only six 
years old, and it was his first taste of the tree 
of knowledge. A sense of injustice rankled 
in him. 

These people mocked him for that which 
he could not help. Added to this, an aching 
horror of his own deformity was upon him. 
A child shrinks from singularity with nervous 
dread. Why was he different from others? 

He crept away to the place where his quilt 
lay and sat down upon it, crying for his 
brother. 

The woman, a trifle ashamed of herself, 
went into the next room and returned with a 
stick of candy, which she offered him. Bunny 
averted his face, mutely rejecting it. She had 
wounded him too deeply for such comforting 
to avail. 

Being troubled enough to be uncomfort- 
able, without being repentant, the woman 
grew ill-tempered over the rebuff. 

7 — Sam [ 99 ] 


LOF C. 


SAM 


“All right, suit yo’se’f,” she said crossly. 
“ ’Tain’t my fault you ’re humpbacked. Y ou ’ll 
meet up with worse teasin’ than mine afore 
you ’re done, I reckon. Folks God have ’flicted 
ain’t got no business bein’ touchy.” 

Sam, returning, wet but triumphant, was 
amazed at Bunny’s tears, and at the energy 
with which the child clung to him. 

“Why, baby, I was n’t gone hardly a min- 
ute,” he expostulated. 

Then he glanced at Mrs. Minter, intending 
to apologize, and to explain that, being deli- 
cate, the little fellow had been spoiled; but 
something in the three strange faces, and also 
in Bunny’s, caused him to change his mind. 

Gathering up his belongings, and holding 
his brother by the hand, he turned to go, 
throwing a sentence back to the woman, in 
a hard tone: 

“You sheltered us, but I reckon you’ve 
made us pay for it, Bunny an’ me !” 


[ 100 ] 


NEW FRIENDS AND NEW HOPE 











































I 























SAM 


CHAPTER V 

NEW FRIENDS AND NEW HOPE 

S AM was bitterly indignant when he drew 
from Bunny the story of the way in 
which the woman had revealed his 
deformity to him. Sam’s eyes glowed, 
and his fists were clinched. He longed to go 
back and give the woman a piece of his mind, 
but he could see how useless that would be, 
and he must look about for lodgings for the 
night. 

“She had n’t no call to treat you mean,” he 
growled. “Bein’ "flicted is wuss for you to 
b’ar ’n ’t is for her to look at. ’T was a low- 
down, measly trick — that ’s what ’t was. Ef 
I ’d knowed what was gwine to happen the 
minute my back war turned, I ’d ha’ let them 
chickens drown— -hen an’ all.” 

[ 103 ] 


SAM 


Then he set himself to cheer the child. 

“Don’t you fret, baby! You ’re a leetle mite 
out o’ plumb now, but you ain’t gwine to stay 
so. No, siree! Sam knows the way out’n 
that brier-patch. Y ou ’re gwine to be straight 
as anybody befo’ long, an’ straighter, too. 
You ’ll see.” 

He nodded his head so triumphantly that 
Bunny stopped crying to ask questions. 

“How, Sammy? How’s I gwine to git 
straighted whenst I ’m started crooked?” 

“You never started crooked,” Sam ex- 
plained eagerly. “You started right as any- 
body. You crawled off’n the po’ch whenst 
you was a baby, an’ hurt yo’ back agin rocks. 
You war n’t lusty enough to git over it right 
by yo’se’f, an we-all did n’t know what to do 
for you then.” 

“Didn’t mammy?” 

“Mammy died whenst you was too little 
an’ tender to projeck with, I reckon. She 
mout’r knowed, bein’ such a smart ’ooman,” 
[ 104 ] 


SAM 


Sam explained, with a child’s loyal admira- 
tion for his mother. “She knowed what to 
do for that ’r sweeten’ apple tree in we-all’s 
garden, mighty good. You know the sweeten’ 
tree by the onion-patch?” 

Bunny nodded. “It ain’t crooked,” he af- 
firmed. “Dad names it the lusties’ tree ’bout’n 
the place.” 

“Jus’ so,” assented Sam, “an’ so ’t is, now, 
But I ’members whenst dad run the wagon- 
wheel over it whenst ’t war n’t nothin’ but a 
sprout an’ mangled it all up. ’T were twisted 
an’ momicked every which-a-way whenst it 
started to grow agin. Mammy she fixed it all 
up, an’ suppo’ted it” — he avoided the word 
stake, fearing to suggest painful images to the 
child — “an’ ’tended to it good, an’ kep’ on 
’tendin’ to it twill it got over bein’ hurted, 
an’ growed straight an’ lusty. An’ b’ars the 
sweetest apples! Don’t it?” 

Bunny grinned quite cheerfully. To his 
mind the analogy seemed perfect. Only there 
[ 105 ] 


SAM 


was no clever mother now to straighten him 
out. The tree had the best of it. His face 
fell. 

“Mammy ain’t here !” he mourned. “I can’t 
git straighted, wantin’ o’ mammy.” 

“Yes, you kin,” Sam declared. “Thar’s 
folks down below here whar makes a business 
o’ it. They make the smartest little jackets 
ever you seed, an’ crooked chil’un w’ars ’em 
an’ gits straight agin. Look a-here!” 

Sam pulled out his old wallet, and extracted 
the precious scrap of paper. 

“I found this here in a fence-corner close by 
home,” he explained. “Somebody passin’ had 
tho’d it away. Them pictures clinched me, 
’count o’ you, an’ I got Pa’son Gardner to read 
the printin’ to me. That tells whar the place is, 
an’ how to get them’r little jackets. We-all air 
gwine arter one now!” he chuckled joyfully. 

Bunny examined the woodcuts diligently. 
Presently the subject presented another 
aspect. 


[ 106 ] 


SAM 


“Do them jackets hurt?” he demanded. 

“No, I reckon not,” responded Sam easily. 
“Jackets don’t gen’ally hurt. Mine don’t. 
You would n’t mind bein’ squoose a leetle 
mite to git straightened, would you, baby?” 

“No,” Bunny replied dubiously. “If 
’t war n’t but a leetle mite. My back hurts 
some anyhow — ’most eve’y day.” 

“That ’s ’cause ’tain’t suppo’ted,” Sam as- 
sured him. “Whenst it gits a smart little 
jacket to brace it up right ’t will quit hurtin’ 
an’ turn to gittin’ lusty.” 

“Then I won’t look droll no more n’other, 
will I?” 

Sam shook his head. 

“An’ whenst we-all come on back with the 
jacket, we-all kin show them sassy chil’un I 
ain’t droll, can’t us?” 

“We can that, an’ we will!” declared 
Sam, his indignation fired once more by the 
mortification and wistfulness of the child’s 
tone. 

[ 107 ] 


SAM 


“We-all will come back by here a-purpose to 
show ’em the straightes’ back in the country — 
we will!” 

The children slept that night in the station 
waiting-room, having obtained permission 
from the agent. It was the last night they 
troubled people until they reached the end of 
their journey. Bunny’s confidence in human 
kindness had received a rude shock, and an 
incident occurred the following morning 
which unsettled it further. 

Sam was obliged to leave him for half an 
hour while he sought a job to procure food 
for the day. He put Bunny on a chair 
in the ticket-office and requested the agent 
to have an eye to him, which the man, a 
good-humored young fellow, promised to 
do. 

The agent brought out some colored litho- 
graphs and an old “McGuffey’s Reader,” and 
chatted to him pleasantly, answering ques- 
tions about the telegraph instrument, wires, 

[ 108 ] 


SAM 


etc. But by and by he was called away to 
attend to the delivery of some freight, and 
Bunny, waxing weary of solitude, came out on 
the platform. 

Instantly he was espied and surrounded by 
a flock of youngsters, white and black, of the 
mischievous sort who frequent railroad sta- 


tinnc The agent being safely 
f sight, they began tor- 
ng the child. 

Ly, hump, whar be you 
; with that boy?” called 



one facetiously, and 
the rest of the gang 
giggled. 


“I bin hear ’t was 
good luck to rub 


humpback folks’ 


hump,” cried a little negro. “I gwine get 
some luck now, sho !” 

He began passing his hand roughly over the 
child’s back; and the rest, gathering closer, 


[ 109 ] 


SAM 


imitated him, jesting rudely, and all trying to 
get their hands on at once. 

Bunny, jolted about and hurt, began to cry 
and beat at them with his weak little fists. 

This only delighted his tormentors more, 
and they hopped about him, jeering. It might 
have gone hard with the child, had not Trevor, 
who had been set by Sam to guard the wagon, 
heard his cries and rushed gallantly to the 
rescue, snapping at the legs of the boys near- 
est him. 

“Sic 'em Trevor! sic ’em!” shouted Bunny, 
smiting his hands together, with his heart 
choked up with rage and bitterness. 

The boys scattered in terror, but not before 
Trevor had set his teeth in the leg of the boy 
who had begun the badgering. 

The noise brought out the agent, who, 
gathering an insight into the situation by the 
position of the little cripple crouched against 
the house-side, and the outcries of the other 
children, drove the whole crowd away, 
[ 110 ] 


SAM 


threatening untold thrashings all around if 
he caught them loafing about the station mak- 
ing trouble again that day. He released the 
boy whom Trevor held, but gave him sour 
sympathy for his bitten leg. 

“It ’s what you earned for yourself,” he said ; 
“so take your pay and quit howlin’. Go home 
an’ tell your mammy I say to read you what 
happened to them outdacious boys in the 
Bible that set themselves to mock afflicted 
folks. ’Twill be the best sort o’ plaster for 
your leg. Now get out o’ this, an’ don’t let 
me see your face for a week.” 

He comforted Bunny as well as he was able, 
and lost sight of him no more until Sam’s re- 
turn. The child, however, had become timid 
and apprehensive. Folks might be kind, like 
the agent, but they might not, and the chances 
were even. 

His old trust in people because they were 
people had vanished, and he became afraid to 
take risks. 


[Ill] 


SAM 


Sam humored him, and, finding that it was 
best to avoid humanity with him, took to hid- 
ing him, wagon and all, in hollows and un- 
frequented places, while foraging for food. 

They kept in sight of the railway. From 
time to time Sam would inform himself of 
their rate of progress by questioning agents. 
He was often footsore and weary, drawing 
the cart, but he held on pluckily. 

The weather was trying them, likewise. 
Accustomed to the fresh, invigorating breath 
of the mountains, they found the heal? of the 
low country, where they now were, well nigh 
insupportable; and Sam, although he had 
never heard of a sunstroke, ran hourly risk of 
falling victim to one as he plodded forward 
through the scorching heat. 

Bunny’s whole thought gradually centred 
upon his own cure. He began to hate his de- 
formity and to long to escape from it, together 
with the miseries which it entailed upon him. 

He made Sam repeat to him over and over 

[ 112 ] 


SAM 


the story of their sweet-apple tree, and show 
him the woodcuts in the circular until the 
paper seemed likely to be worn to fragments 
by handling. He made plans for himself — 
stalwart plans of what he would do when he 
should become strong and straight, like Sam 
and Charlie. 

He would cut wood for Millie and drive the 
team and work in the cornfield. Nobody 
could call him “po’ leetle creeter” then, nor 
“hunchback,” nor even “afflicted of God. ,, 
This last phrase fortunately conveyed little 
meaning to his mind ; but it was sonorous and 
terrible, and Bunny, not understanding, 
quailed under it. 

“Will them thar leetle jackets cert’n’y cure 
me?” he demanded of Sam many times. 

And Sam, whose faith in the people to 
whom he was carrying his brother increased 
in ratio proportionate to his own struggles to 
reach them, always positively assured the 
child that there was no doubt of it. 

[ 113 ] 


SAM 


Bunny unexpectedly had his doubts laid at 
rest, and bolstered from another quarter. Sam 
had left him in a shady little hollow beside a 
spring while he made one of his customary 
visits to a farmhouse of the handsomer sort 
with which lower Virginia is filled. 

The boys had found that farmers’ people 
were most responsive to their needs, and also 
most in want of a sort of service which Sam 
could render. 

Bunny, with Trevor for company, lay happy 
and contented on his quilt in the shadow of a 
live-oak, watching the breeze stir the leaves 
and listening to the shrilling of a cicada. It 
was very warm and still in the little hollow; 
the scented air fanned him softly, and his eyes 
grew heavy. Trevor watched him, drowsy- 
eyed himself. The child’s eyelids fell together, 
and he slept, but the dog roused himself, 
yawned and stretched himself, and, being hun- 
gry, departed down the little stream to dig out 
crawfish. 


[ 114 ] 



“ Wake up, I say ! ” 


8— Sam 



















































































* 




































\ 





























































S A M 


Along a narrow path which led into the 
glen waddled an old Muscovy drake, limping 
on one leg, and grumbling to himself after the 
manner of drakes. Behind him came a little 
girl, who halted also, bearing more on one 
foot than the other. 

She was neatly dressed, and had a bright, 
pretty face, with big eyes that had shadows 
under them, showing that pain was no 
stranger to her little frame. The small maiden 
seemed intelligent beyond her years, and also 
looked what she was, the child of gentle- 
people. 

When she caught sight of Bunny asleep on 
his quilt, her face dimpled all over, and she 
smote her hands softly together. 

Abandoning the drake to his own devices, 
she squatted down on the quilt and broke off 
a long bit of grass with a seeded end. 

“Wake up!” she laughed. “Wake up, I 
say!” and tickled his nose with the grass. 

Bunny clawed at his face with his hands, 
[ 117 ] 


SAM 


rolled over, and opened his eyes. When he 
caught sight of the girl he lay quite still, 
staring with all his might. Soon another ex- 
pression dawned in his eyes — a hunted, 
frightened expression ; he shrank together. 
The other child noticed the look at once. 

“What are you afraid of?” she demanded. 
“I ain’t going to hurt you.” 

As he struggled into a sitting posture she 
saw that he was deformed, and a wave of 
sympathy swept over her face. Being a little 
gentlewoman, she made no comment, but only 
leaned forward and shook hands with him cor- 
dially. 

“I live over there,” she said, nodding in the 
direction whence she had come. “I am Maud 
Stanhope. What is your name?” 

Bunny told her, noticing, child though he 
was, that she was somehow different from the 
people he had been seeing lately. He drew 
closer to her. 

“Is that your drake?” he questioned, seek- 

1118] 


SAM 


ing refuge in matters he could understand. 
“Millie 's got a drake, but 'tain't green all over 
like yourn. It 's got a green head, though, an’ 
it 's got three ducks — white ones.” 

“Polands, I reckon,” observed Maud, with 
an air of wisdom. “We 've got some, too, but 
I hate 'em. Horrid, greedy things they are, 
always fighting the baby chickens. I like 
Lord Byron, though. Father says I 've got a 
fellow-feeling for him.” 

Bunny looked bewildered, and she laughed 
and pointed toward the drake, who was dab- 
bling and fishing in the little stream. 

“Father named him,” she explained, with a 
laugh. “Lord Byron was a poet, and he had 
a club foot, like poor old Muscovy and me.” 

She thrust one foot and ankle from beneath 
her dress. One leg from above the knee was 
in a framework of steel bands and plates and 
soft straps of leather, securely buckled. The 
frame went down into her shoe, which indeed 
formed a part of it, and was cleverly hinged at 
[ 119 ] 


SAM 


the kr\ee so as not to interfere with motion. 
Bunny thrilled with interest. 

“What ails your leg?” he queried with 
eagerness. 

“My ankle was all twisted, and my foot set 
round crooked — like this,” demonstrating 
with the sound one. “It was drefful, and 
when I was real little I could n’t walk. 
I’m nine years old now, and I can walk 
right good. After a while mother says I can 
leave off wearing my brace and walk like other 
folks.” 

“Wha ’d you git that thing?” He touched 
the brace with his finger. 

“Father got it. He took me to a big town 
where doctors live and had my leg ’zamined, 
and the doctor made my brace for me. My 
leg ’s getting real strong now, and every time 
the doctor sees it he says, ‘Little maid, this is 
doing bravely. You ’ll dance at your wedding 
yet.’ ” She laughed out gleefully. 

Bunny quivered with excitement. Here 

[ 120 ] 


SAM 


was a cure such as Sam described, being actu- 
ally performed. 

“Do it hurt? ,, he queried. 

“Not now. It felt funny till I got used to 
it. And my ankle aches anyhow sometimes. 
Mother says ’t would ache worse without my 
brace, and then I could n’t walk at all. I love 
to walk myself.” 

The little girl showed him how the mechan- 
ism worked, and explained it as well as she 
could. 

“I can’t show you any better,” she 
said. “Mother won’t let me take it off my- 
self. I might do something bad to my 
foot. She takes it off herself when it ought to 
come, and rubs my leg with stuff the doctor 
gives her.” 

Bunny regarded her with solemnity. 

“Be you ’flicted o’ God?” he demanded. “I 
be, folks says.” 

The little girl looked bewildered, as well 
she might. 


[ 121 ] 


SAM 


“My foot was born twisted,” she said. 
Then, brightening up, she proceeded : 

“Mother says lots of folks are careless with 
little babies; forget ’em and leave ’em alone, 
and all sorts of horrid things, so that their 
little bones get hurt and tumbled up while 
they ’re tender. God can’t help that, you know, 
because he gave the babies to people for their 
very own — just like father can’t make me not 
break my dolls up. He can mend ’em, though. 
Mother says that ’s what God does. 

“When the stupid, careless people let the 
dear babies get hurt, God is so sorry about it 
that he shows good, clever people how to 
undo the mischief, and fix ’em back like they 
ought to be. Mother tells me about it lots of 
times.” 

This was, as yet, beyond Bunny’s compre- 
hension; but he thought it sounded nice, and 
also that this was the very pleasantest little 
girl he had ever seen. He nestled closer to 
her. 


[ 122 ] 


SAM 


“My back is goin’ to get mended,” he an- 
nounced. “We-all air on the way now arter 
one o’ them little jackets folks put on crooked 
chil’un to make ’em grow straight. Sam 
knows whar to go arter one. He ’s takin’ me 
to town to git un- 
doubled.” 

Maud nodded cheer- 
fully, perfectly con- 
vinced of the feasibil- 
ity of the experiment. 

Then she put ques- 
tions in her turn, and 
learned a great deal 
about Bunny’s home 
people, and especially about his brother 
Sam. 

But about the situation of his home the 
child was vague. It was on a hill, he said, 
and had great big mountains round it, but 
that was all he knew. The journey had con- 
fused the little fellow’s notions of locality. 

[ 123 ] 




SAM 


He had come a long way, he said, and Sam 
had pulled him in his wagon. 

So well amused were the children with 
each other that when Sam returned with a 
full bucket and a bottle of milk given him by 
the kind lady at the farm, he had some diffi- 
culty in persuading Bunny to consent to 
moving onward. 

He kissed his hand to Maud again and 
again as his wagon trundled off, and called 
cheerily: “I ’ll come to see you whenst my 
back gits cured, sure an’ certain !” 


[ 124 ] 


THE JOURNEY’S END 




SAM 


CHAPTER VI 

THE JOURNEY’S END 

T HE sun shone scorchingly. The atmos- 
phere was hot and stirless, the road 
over which Sam was laboriously 
dragging Bunny stretched dustily in- 
to the distance until it merged into a suburban 
street. There was a terrible drought in the 
low country, and this 30th of August the 
thermometer registered ninety degrees in the 
shade. 

Vegetation was scorched and twisted, and 
the leaves along the wayside drooped' deject- 
edly. Only the magnolias showed vigor 
enough to hold their stiff foliage in its natural 
position; and even on them the leaves looked 
choked, bearing each its thick covering of 
dust. 


[ 127 ] 


SAM 


Sam had erected a shelter of bushes over 
the wagon, so that Bunny was in a measure 
protected; but the sun beat down on Sam’s 
own head and well nigh addled his brains. 

He kept the crown of his hat filled with 
leaves, which he wet at every stream he 
crossed. This precaution, learned from 
negroes along the roadside, had doubtless 
saved him from sunstroke. He had a bad 
stone-bruise on one of his feet, and so was 
forced to hobble on his heel. But this did not 
daunt his spirit, for his journey was drawing 
to a close, and even now, with his wayworn 
and dirty little outfit, he was entering the 
very city wherein was the goal of his 
hopes. 

“This here ’s the place, Bun!” he declared 
triumphantly, after questioning a wayfarer. 
But at sight of the houses, clustered together 
in the suburbs, Bunny appeared bewildered. 

“How ’ll you find the house, Sam?” he ques- 
tioned, anxiously. “Thar ’s so many — hun’eds 
[ 128 ] 


SAM 


an’ hun’eds. Did n't look like thar could be 
such a lot o’ folks in the world. 

“I ’ll find the right house fast enough,” Sam 
pluckily assured him. “I ain’t dragged you all 
them miles to be daunted right at the finish. 
God ha’ gin me a tongue, an’ I p’int’ly knows 
how to use it.” 

He plodded forward, followed faithfully by 
the dog. 

People eyed the procession curiously, won- 
dering what caper that ragged boy could be 
up to. Once or twice they called to him to 
keep out of the middle of the street or he 
would get run over. Under the bushy tent 
they could see a child sitting on a folded quilt, 
with a pillow behind him. 

“Some little country tacks,” most people 
decided, and paid no further heed to them. 

The hot cobblestones burned Sam’s swol- 
len feet, and caused his stone-bruise to throb 
cruelly. He looked about anxiously for some 
one who seemed sufficiently at leisure to di- 
[ 129 ] 


SAM 


rect him. The city noises bewildered him and 
all the passers seemed in a hurry. 

In a moment he espied a man in his shirt- 
sleeves lounging in a shop-door, who looked 
as if he might have time to answer a ques- 
tion. Sam drew his convoy to the curbstone 
and took his precious circular, considerably 
the worse for wear, from his pocket. 

“Kin you tell me how to find that thar 
house ?” he asked. “I Ve come considVble 
ways to find it.” 

The man turned the circular in his hand. 
He had seen a great many of them. A be- 
nevolent institution a few blocks away put 
them out by the thousand. 

“Where’d you get this?” he questioned. 

Something in the appearance of the lad and 
his belongings excited his curiosity. The men 
from the shops on each side joined the group. 

“I found it blowed up in a fence-corner nigh 
home,” Sam explained readily. “Some passer 
had flung it away, an’ it lit thar.” 

[ 130 ] 


S A M 


The grocer, from the right-hand shop, 
looked Sam over from crown to heel. 

“This is a hospital for spinal cripples,” he 
remarked. “Ain’t you made some mistake? 
You look right as a trivet.” 

“My little brother ain’t,” Sam responded, 
pointing to the wagon. “I ’ve fetched him 
down to be cured ; if so be them folks air able.” 

The men’s eyes began to open, and the 
dealer in boots and shoes from the left-hand 
shop asked: 

“Where’d you come from, my lad?” 

Sam named a county in the western part of 
the state, up along the Blue Ridge. The men 
stared. 

“Do you mean to say, boy, that you ’ve 
walked all the way from the Blue Ridge 
Mountains, and dragged that child in his 
wagon?’ cried the fruit-dealer, to whom Sam 
had first spoken. 

Sam nodded. 

“We got a lift once in a while,” he replied 

9— Sam [ 1 ^ 1 ] 


SAM 


literally. “But mostly I dragged him. He 
was ’bleeged to be fetched arter we-all foun’ 
out thar was a chance to straighten him, an’ 
thar war n’t no yuther way. I were able to 
tackle the job — anyhow I done it,” he smiled 
triumphantly. 

The fruit-dealer pushed back his hat. 

“Great Scotland!” he said, “but you ’re 
clean grit!” 

The other men nodded an energetic ac- 
quiescence. 

They drew the little wagon up on the pave- 
ment and into the fruit shop, and stripped off 
the bushes. Bunny looked troubled at first, 
not being sure of the treatment he might 
meet. The men seemed more taken up with 
Sam than with him, however, although the 
fruit-man gave him a sweet cake and two 
peaches. 

There were so many new things for Bunny 
to look at that he kept quiet and munched 
contentedly, after he had given a peach to Sam. 

[ 132 ] 


SAM 


They plied Sam with questions and drew 
from him the history of his exploit, all save 
the fact that his father was still an able-bodied 
man and owned a yoke of oxen. Sam had 
pride of family, and was loyal to his own. 

He might fret at the parental worthlessness 
in his own mind, or to his brother and sister, 
but he was above exhibiting his concern on 
this point to strangers. His mother was dead, 
he told them, and his father “pow’ful ’flicted 
wi’ rheum , tism. ,, Then he passed on to other 
matters. 

When questioned why he did not make 
known his scheme in the villages he passed 
through and take up a subscription to bring 
his brother on the train, Sam opened wide 
eyes at them. He had no adequate notion of 
what a subscription might be, and was, more- 
over, accustomed to self-reliance. 

“Why should I pester folks ’bout a thing 
I war able to squar’ myse’f ?” he inquired. “We- 
all don’t roust ther neighbors for holp whar 
[ 133 ] 


S A M 


I come from, ’thout’n we be ailin’. I be a 
lusty fellow, an’ the wagon ain’t cumbersome. 
It took mo’ time ’n we-all looked for, but the 
baby ain’t worsted none to notice.” 

He seemed to make no account of his own 
fatigue. The fruit-dealer, whose name was 
Jones, took the children upstairs to his wife, 
whom he requested to feed them and the dog, 
and also to look after Sam’s foot. 

“When you get rested and tidied up some, 
I ’ll take you round to the institution myself,” 
he told Sam kindly. “Some customers of 
mine live about there, and I know the matron 
and resident doctor.” 

Then he descended to the store again, and 
summoned a meeting of his neighbors. He 
was an enthusiastic man, but practical withal. 
Opening his cash-drawer, he took out a bank- 
note and tossed it into an empty berry-box, 
which he extended invitingly. 

“Chip in, gentlemen!” he cried; “chip in! 
We ain’t up to anything as fine as that little 
[ 134 ] 


S A M 


chap's trip down from the Blue Ridge on his 
own legs to help his brother, but we can take 
one rock out of his path. He 's got sand, that 
boy, and he must n't be balked right at the 
end. He has n’t a cent o' money. That place 
for spinal cripples is a benevolent institution, 
as much as it can be without endowment. But 
they are obliged to charge a small fee till 
some rich chap leaves ’em a pile. The fee 
ain't much, and I reckon we can raise it." 

“That 's right !" he said, as the quarters and 
half-dollars rattled into the box. “Thankee, 
gentlemen. Now I '11 step around and see 
about an admission ticket." 

He put on his coat, and, leaving word for 
the children to remain where they were until 
his return, betook himself to the “Spine- 
Cure," as it was commonly called. The super- 
intendent — a clever, cultured woman, whose 
heart was in her work — happened to be dis- 
engaged, and listened to Mr. Jones's story 
with keen interest. 


[ 135 ] 


SAM 


“Do you mean that they came without 
money or help, other than occasional lifts in 
farm wagons and presents of food? That 
this boy Sam pulled his brother in a cart 
hundreds of miles on the chance of our being 
able to do him some good?” 

“That ’s the story, madam,” Jones assented. 
“It ’s true, too, as you ’ll see when you ’ve 
talked to the children. They ’re mountain- 
eers, and ignorant little fellows in many 
ways.” 

“This boy Sam, it seems, is intelligent 
enough to have done a remarkably fine thing,” 
the lady declared heartily. 

“Just so, madam; just so. And he is as un- 
conscious of its fineness as one of his own 
mountains is of having its brow above the 
clouds. God comes so to the lowly, ma’am — 
right down into ’em.” 

“When can you bring the children in?” 

“At once, madam, if you are ready for ’em. 
And we — my neighbors and I — chipped in the 
[ 136 ] 


SAM 


admission fee. Here it is. Oh, no,” depre- 
cating her gesture of refusal, “the Institution 
needs it, and we can spare it. Don’t mind our 
having a hand in the job, too.” 

The lady smiled and took out her pocket- 
book. 

“Well, then, since 
you wish it,” she ac- 
quiesced cordially. 

“Now I must consult 
with Doctor Grey 
about the child. He 
must go into the in- 
fants’ ward at first.” 

“I’ll look after Sam,” 

Mr. Jones declared, as 
he took his leave. “I 
want a good boy about the shop and to deliver 
goods. This fellow ’s proved his mettle, and 
he ’s country-bred, so he will know how to 
manage a horse. He ’ll have to stay with the 
baby a few days, I reckon, till the strangeness 
[ 137 ] 



S A M 


wears off. Then you can turn him over to 
me. 

So it was finally arranged between them. 
Mrs. Jones, having gathered the children’s 
story, made them very comfortable. She 
wrapped Sam’s stone-bruise with soothing 
ointment, and gave Bunny a bath and a 
change of clothing. She was much interested 
in Sam’s hope of a cure, and gave him a good 
deal of encouragement. 

“This Institution has turned out a good 
many cures since it started,” she told them. 
“There ’s spine complaints that can’t be cured, 
of course, but most sorts can if they are taken 
young enough. I knew a child worse off than 
this one whose back got cured.” 

Bunny leaned against her knee. 

“Cured straight and strong — real straight, 
like other folks?” he questioned wistfully. He 
could not receive assurance enough that this 
thing was possible. 

Bunny went to the hospital and Sam had a 
[ 138 ] 


SAM 


terribly anxious time while he was under- 
going the medical examination. He was not 
allowed in the room, so he stood in the hall 
outside the surgery door and leaned against 
it. 

Strain his ears as he would, he could hear 
no sound, so he felt sure the child was being 
gently handled. But the strain on his own 
nerves grew heavy, and he clinched his fists 
and dug his bare toes into the hall matting 
to hold himself steady. 

“O Lord !” he groaned. “S’posin’ ’tain’t no 
use! S’posin’ he can’t git cured arter all! I ’d 
better ha’ left him up yonder at home, maybe 
— not knowin’ nothing’. If nothin’ can’t be 
done, I ’ll feel like I ’d trapped a pore creeter 
an’ then h’isted the door a leetle mite to make 
him think he was gwine to git loose, an’ at the 
las’ minute, whenst his’n paws was fa’ly out, 
banged the door shut agin. Lordy! Lordy! 
but I ’m skeered !” 

The perspiration stood on his forehead, and 
[ 139 ] 


SAM 


his eyes took on a positively haggard expres- 
sion. Doctor Grey, coming out at last, saw 
how it was with him, and laid a kind hand on 
his shoulder. He liked the lad already. 

“Cheer up, my boy!” he said. “There ’s 
hope, and good hope, too. The little fellow’s 
curvature is simple, and you ’ve brought him 
to us in time. With care and patience, we ’ll 
straighten him out, I think. It will be a slow 
job, and a long one. You must make up your 
minds to that, both of you. But with care 
and patience, as I say, there is, humanly 
speaking, no reason why we should not suc- 
ceed.” 

Then, to his surprise, Sam, in his relief, in 
his thankfulness, laid his head against the 
door-frame and broke into weeping. 

“ ’T was me done it,” he confessed, between 
his sobs. “Me, though I never went to. 
Mammy lef’ me to mind Bun whilst she went 
to milkin’. The dogs jumped up a squ’r’l an’ 
yelped lusty, treein’ him. I forgot all ’bout’n 
[ 140 ] 


S A M 


the baby, an’ clipped out to holp ’em an lef’ 
the door open. Ther po’ch flo’ to home is 
three foot above groun’, an’ Bunny aimed to 
follow me, an’ crawled off an’ banged his 
back agin rocks. We-all never knowed what 
to do for him till I found that paper. Look 
like to me if thar had n’t been no chance for 
hisn pore lettle back I couldn’ ’a’ ’greed to 
kep’ on livin’.” 

Doctor Grey kept his hand on the boy’s 
shoulder. This outbreak would be a relief, he 
knew. He understood Sam better now, and 
admired him more. This sturdy sort of prac- 
tical repentance appealed to his own man- 
hood. “And shouldest thou inflict evil upon 
thy brother, carelessly, go straightway and 
undo unto him that which thou hast done, 
confessing thyself unto the Lord, and sorrow- 
ing for thy sin.” The words repeated them- 
selves in his brain, and he said them out to 
Sam. 

“You ’ve done that, my lad,” he observed, 
[ 141 ] 


SAM 


kindly. “You’ve tried to undo the evil you 
did ‘carelessly,’ and I think, with God’s bless- 
ing, it will be undone. Now dry your tears, 
for here comes Bunny, and he will think all 
sorts of dreadful things if he finds you cry- 
ing.” 

The next day Sam approached the matron 
shyly. 

“What is it?” she said, seeing a request in 
his face. 

“The folks at home,” he answered wist- 
fully. “I can’t write yet, but I ’m gwine to 
learn. They ought to know ’bout’n the baby, 
an’ I ’lowed you mout n’t mind writin’ for me 
one time. We-all kin send the letter to keer 
o’ Pa’son Gardner, an’ he ’ll tote it over 
an’ read it to ’em. I promised Millie an’ 
Bud.” 

Allowing herself only the license of correct 
spelling, the kind lady wrote absolutely at 
Sam’s dictation. The letter ran thus : 

“Dear Dad, Millie an’ Bud. — We-all, Bun, 
[ 142 ] 


S A M. 


Trevor an’ me, got here all right, but mighty 
tired. Bun stood the trip first-rate, and it 
never hurted him none. He fretted at first to 
go back home, but after he ketched on to 
what I was up to, he behaved as well as any- 
body. The dog overtook us the first night — 
jumped out of the bushes in the dark and 
scared Bun nigh to death; he thought ’t was 
a bear and just hollered! He ’s gaunt— 
Trevor is — along of hard travel and short ra- 
tions, but he ’s all right. 

“The doctors overhauled Bunny yesterday, 
and handled him tender. The baby never 
even winced. They say there ain’t no reason 
agin his being cured. ’T will take time, but it 
can be done. The longness ain’t nothing if 
the job will work right in the end, only we-all 
can’t get home soon as I promised. It took 
longer to get here than I allowed. 

“Charlie ’ll have to get outside help with 
the fodder — any of the boys ’ll come whenst 
they hear I ’ve got to stay with Bun till he 
[ 143 ] 


SAM 


gets used to the place and the folks here. 
They don’t charge nothing hardly for Bunny 
here, Bud, so don’t you fret, but look sharp 
after the stock and the crop, and take care of 
Millie and dad. I ’ll look out for the baby. 
Bun sends his love and a kiss to Millie. So 
do I. 

“A nice man here has given me a job. Get 
Mr. Gardner to write and tell we-all how you 
are, and whether you get this letter. 

“Bunny’s back ’s going to be straight! 

“Your loving brother and son, Sam Col- 
ston.” 

Sam’s . letter proved to be prophecy. 
Bunny’s back became straight, though it took 
weeks, and even months, of care and patience. 
And there was something more, for during 
these weeks and months the kind friends at 
the hospital, and those who had helped him 
obtain entrance there, combined in a plan for 
the future. Bunny was to have an education, 
and Sam, too, and through them happiness 
[ 144 ] 


S A M 


and the light of knowledge were to be carried 
to the home among the hills. Sam’s educa- 
tion began at once. By the time Bunny was 
well, Sam was able to write the good news 
home, and when they returned home at last 
with Bunny straight and well and happy, they 
brought with them the means of educational 
beginnings for all. 

That was several years ago. Bunny is a 
medical student now in the hospital where he 
found his cure. Sam is a teacher among the 
hills where he was born, helping others to live 
in the better way he has found, and Millie is 
keeping house for Bunny. Charlie alone re- 
mains on the farm, and is farming in such a 
manner that others have taken him as an 
example, and the district among the hills is 
no longer a land of shiftlessness and igno- 
rance. And all this was begun from the resolu- 
lution of one poor ignorant boy to bring about 
the cure of a child’s misfortune; so perhaps 
after all the misfortune was not a misfortune. 

[ 145 ] 


SAM 


Perhaps in a greater plan than any we may 
know, the hump on Bunny's back was not 
put there as an affliction, but as a blessing in 
disguise. 


[ 146 ] 
































































































































































































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